To Save a Life
by sss979
Summary: For some missions, you put it all on the line even if there's no chance of success. I suggest you read at least Nature of Trust first, but it's not strictly necessary.WARNINGS: POW/Prison situation. Violence and torture. BOOK 11 of 19
1. Prologue

RATING: R

SUMMARY: For some missions, you put it all on the line even if there's no chance of success. I suggest you read Nature of Trust first, but it's not strictly necessary.

WARNINGS: POW/Prison situation. Violence and torture.

**PROLOGUE**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

Jessica woke up to the sound of the door bell and forced her eyes to focus on the clock. She was not happy to see what it read. _This had better damn well be an emergency._ Still half asleep, she rose and threw on a house coat as she stumbled to the door. Her eyes were still bleary when she pulled it open, but they widened quickly. Her breath caught in her throat at the shock of what she saw.

"Face?"

He was standing in the rain, soaked through and disheveled. His shirt wasn't even tucked into his jeans. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, soaked hair plastered to his forehead, he would've looked like hell even if not for the fact he'd been beat to hell. His lip was split, both eyes were blackened, and there were bruises on his left cheek. The bruises on his neck went all the way around - rope? - and there was a noticeable cut on his neck, held together with butterfly bandages. From the look of it, and the way he stood, she ventured to guess that there were probably more injuries under the long sleeved flannel. The thunder overhead rumbled low in the clouds as he stood shivering and wet, and didn't speak.

She pulled him in by the arm when he didn't come inside by himself. "My God, Face, what happened?" she asked as she shut the door again.

"Sorry," he whispered through chattering teeth. He sounded distant, almost dazed, as he stood still, dripping on her carpet. "It's wet outside."

"It's pouring rain! What are you doing out there?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She was moving in a familiar way she remembered from long ago, when broken, bloody, half-dead men were dragged from helicopters into her dispensary. With no regard for her flooring, she grabbed him by the arm and pushed him toward the stairs.

"Come on, let's get you out of those clothes."

Face didn't seem to have the willpower to resist, much less argue with her. She guided him up the steps and to the master bathroom, attached to her bedroom, and grabbed a towel. She pulled his head forward, toweling his hair dry, and he shut his eyes as she released him, leaning back on the door.

Slowly, he withdrew his hands from his pockets and tried to unbutton his shirt. His knuckles were split, and his dexterity was horribly lacking. Whether it was from the cold or something more, it was hard to tell. His hands were shaking. He looked about ready to collapse.

"Here," Jessica said with authority, setting the towel on the sink. "Take your pants off and sit down."

He didn't answer, and she was surprised by the lack of argument as she efficiently, professionally stripped his pants, shoes, and socks. His fingers were still fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as she looked him over. Bruises on his legs, too. Bruises everywhere – deep purple bruises, several days old, in thick lines.

As he managed slowly to get the shirt down, she saw that his ribs were wrapped. More bruises, bandaged wounds. And... red lipstick? The smear on his shoulder definitely seemed like the one thing out of place.

She had bigger concerns.

It was so ingrained in her she almost wasn't aware of it on a conscious level. It made it easier in a way - just work and not Face beaten and hurt. No sign of head injury. Pupils equal, round, reactive, and light accommodating. Good. His gait had been tight and stiff, but coordinated; so no gross signs of neurological damage, excellent. Skin turgor – good. Capillary refill – good. Respirations nineteen, chest movement was equal with each breath, even though the breaths were slightly shallow. Yeah, well, cracked ribs would do that.

She took a step back, looking him up and down as she shook her head slightly. "What the hell did you get yourself into?" she asked under her breath, bewildered.

He glanced up at her, mostly naked and shivering from the cold. Tapping the side of his face, she pushed his gaze to the side – like a mother whose son frustrated her although he didn't realize he was doing anything wrong. She wasn't at all angry, but at the moment, she wasn't even sure what to do with him.

She reached into the tub and started the hot water.

"I'm fine, Jess," he whispered through chattering teeth. "Just... just cold."

"Yes, I can tell you're cold." She turned and sat on the edge of the tub as the water warmed. "You're shivering. How long were you out there in the rain?"

"About an hour."

"An hour!" She couldn't hide her shock. "Why? Did you walk here? Where's your car?"

"No."

She sighed, and decided it was probably pointless to try and explain to him that it hadn't been a yes or no question. She adjusted the water temperature, then pulled the curtain before she turned the shower on. As she stood, she ran a hand through his wet hair.

"Get warmed up so that I can take a look at you."

"I'm fine."

She watched him shrink away from her touch, into himself somehow, and frowned. That was unlike him. The Face she knew craved touch - whether sexual or merely companionable. She knelt down in front of him - she most unthreatening position she could think of. He turned his head away, not meeting her eyes.

"Face, get in the shower," she said softly. "I'll get you some clothes. Okay? And then, for my peace of mind if nothing else, at least let me rewrap your ribs."

He brought his eyes up to hers slowly, and held her stare. "Everything you see is three days old, Jess."

"I know. I can tell by the coloring on the bruises. What's your point?"

"I don't need you to -"

"Face," she interrupted.

He fell silent as he looked at her.

"I'm not going to ask why you're here. Because I don't care. What I _do _care about is that you are shivering with cold, and your body is in no condition to handle that. So get in the shower."

She stood, not waiting for his protest, and left with a quick, "I'll be back in a minute," over her shoulder.

It wasn't until she was out of the room, rummaging through her dresser drawers in search of sweatpants that she finally processed what she was seeing. The bruises were too uniform, too evenly distributed in lines that were too straight to be a bar brawl of even the worst kind. She'd seen wounds like that before. In another life, across the ocean, on men she was forbidden to speak to for fear of what sort of sensitive information they might tell her. He'd been beaten. Probably, from the looks of it, by a professional.

_Jesus, Face, what have you gotten yourself into this time?_

It had taken her no more than a few seconds to gather the information. It took her longer to push away all the emotions that came with knowing that Face had been tortured. The marks on his neck - a rope? A noose? A restraint of some sort? Her stomach turned at the thought. Caning and torture were not enough?

Ignoring the pain and anger that came with that thought, she forced herself to take a deep breath. There was no place for her emotions here. He needed her to handle this, so she damn well could do that.

She was pleased to find that he'd gotten into the shower. Standing on the other side of the curtain with the sweatpants on the counter behind her and a towel in hand for when he needed it, she watched the floor as she listened to the hiss of the water.

"So what happened, Face? Where have you been?"

He was hesitant to answer. "Mission."

She sighed. She'd guessed that much. But he wasn't offering anything more, and she could wait to get her answers.

The water shut off, and she handed him a towel around the curtain. A moment later, he stepped out with it tucked around his waist. She pointed wordlessly to the closed lid of the toilet. As he sat down, he raised his arms carefully and let her unwind the wet bandage wrap from around his ribs. There was a row of stitches from his shoulder all the way down to his opposite side, almost to his hip. His entire back was purple and blue with bruising, and some areas were still welted.

"What the hell happened to you?" she whispered, almost to herself, as she set the bandage aside.

"It's not that bad."

"Compared to what?"

"To what it could've been."

His serious tone made her glance up. The tone matched the look in his eyes. She held his gaze for a long moment, then lowered her eyes to her task.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"I just..." He hesitated for a long moment. "I wasn't really sure where else to go. And I didn't want to be alone."

"I've told you before," she answered quietly. "You're always welcome here. There's nothing to be sorry about."

He swallowed, and lowered his eyes. "It's two o'clock in the morning."

"I don't have to work tomorrow. And even if I did, you're still welcome here."

He nodded slowly.

"I take it Hannibal did these stitches?"

"Yes."

"He did a good job."

"He was always a good medic."

"I didn't know he was a medic."

"He went through the training."

Face's voice was so dead and cold, it made her stomach tie up in knots. As she finished carefully wrapping a fresh bandage around his ribs, she secured it and sat back on her heels.

"Face, you look like you've been to hell and back."

He hesitated a long moment, then looked up and met her eyes again. There was an intensity in his stare that hadn't been there a moment before - white hot fire. But it wasn't anger. It was more complex than that. He took in a slow breath before he answered, his gaze never wavering.

"I have."


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"Do you know what I did in Vietnam, Jess? What my reputation was based on?"

"Well, I know being a part of Hannibal's team bought you some notoriety."

She was listening, but she was also concentrating on her task, unwrapping the ace bandage around his arm carefully, down the sterile white gauze underneath.

"But to be honest, I don't know much of what-"

Her stream of thought stopped cold as she saw the dark, dried blood and clear fluid oozing through the gauze. A burn.

"Jesus, Face!"

"Careful," he said softly. "It hurts like hell."

"I'll bet it does."

She left his arm and stood, turning to the cabinet that held all of the stuff that managed to find its way to her house after work. Then she left the room and returned a moment later with an aloe plant. His eyes never left her as she broke off one of the stems, opening it up. He winced as she prodded and cleaned the wound gently with gloved hands, then spread the goo from the inside of the plant over the burn.

Finally, he continued softly as he watched her. "Before I was with Hannibal, I'd already made something of a reputation for myself. Doing POW snatches. Lots of them."

"I hadn't heard that," she admitted.

Face let out the breath he'd been holding as she withdrew her hand and spent a moment blowing a cool stream of air over the blistered burn. That felt good, she knew. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he put his head back and shut his eyes.

"The POW snatches were what got Hannibal interested in me in the first place. Among other things." A faint smile crossed his lips, and he paused for just a moment before continuing quietly. "I was good at it, too. Damn good at it..."

**1970**

"Trust me. It's a great plan."

If the plan hadn't already been enough to make Face's skin crawl, Hannibal's cocky smile and confident tone sure as hell was. Face kept his mouth shut, afraid of what might come out if he spoke.

BA wasn't so quiet. "Great plan?" he challenged. "You gonna let the VC take you off somewhere to be tortured? That's your great plan?"

"The only way they'll do that," Hannibal answered, "is if you guys lose sight of me."

BA scowled. "That ain't a great plan."

Hannibal chewed on the end of his unlit cigar with a smile. "I have confidence in you."

"So lemme get this straight," Murdock said, processing very slowly. "You want me to crash a helicopter – on purpose and in a known red zone – into the jungle - from which we cannot possibly take off again - so that you can get taken POW?"

"That's the gist of it, yeah." Hannibal grinned as he struck a match and lit his cigar, but the self-assured smile had turned forced somewhere in the midst of Murdock's recounting their mission.

"I give up," Cruiser cried, throwing his hands up. "The man has lost it."

Face was inclined to agree. But there would be no talking sense to him when he was on the jazz, even when his own plan made _him _nervous. Clearly, Hannibal was just as anxious about the whole thing, though he was hiding it fairly well. Face wasn't even sure the rest of the team had picked up on it. But in spite of the concerns – the concerns they all had - the adrenaline rush of such crazy, dangerous plans had a tendency to make Hannibal high as a kite, and just as irrational as an addict. Nervous or not, he really did love the plan.

As long as nothing went wrong.

The colonel's track record spoke for itself. He knew the risks he could and couldn't take in order to both get the job done and get out alive. If he didn't, he would've been dead long ago. And he knew his team. Face had to admit that whether he liked it or not, Hannibal probably knew him – what he was capable of, how he thought, his limits, strengths, weaknesses – better than anyone ever had in his life. He knew _all _of them that well. And as much as Face disliked the thought of using Hannibal as bait, he also knew that it was just one of many times that he'd put his life in their hands. He also knew that if Hannibal had asked him to be the bait, he would do it just as willingly.

Still, he didn't feel nearly as reassured as he wished he could.

The team filed out of the TOC, but Face stayed where he was – leaning against the wall. He got a good look at Murdock's eyes as he passed, and quickly looked away. The implication that this plan would put Murdock on the ground with Hannibal had not gone unnoticed. Face didn't like it. Since he'd come back for his second tour, Murdock had joined them for most of their training – on his own time and of his own free will. He would hold it together much better now than he had last time. But the fact that his first real ground mission involved intentionally being taken POW... well... it was going over about as well as any of them could've expected it to.

"Lieutenant?"

Face glanced up, setting his thoughts aside. "Hmm?"

"You seem worried."

The tone, almost a taunt, was meant to elicit a negative response. Of course he wasn't worried! Why should he be worried? He didn't worry!

He was absolutely - without apology - worried.

"I don't like this plan."

"I didn't expect you to."

He started toward the door, but Face didn't move. "No, Colonel," he continued, dead serious. "I mean I _really_ don't like this plan."

Hannibal paused at the door, and turned back, brows raised as he waited for Face to elaborate on a better alternative. But at the moment, Face didn't have one.

"I know you want Murdock with you," Face said. "I know it's because he the only other one of us who speaks Vietnamese. But what I don't get is why you can't just arrange for a Vietnamese pilot to do the same thing."

"Actually, that's not why I want him," Hannibal answered. "It's a bonus, but it's not why."

"I'd love to hear the reason."

Hannibal studied him for a moment, reading the look of concern on his face. Finally, he sat down in the chair nearest the door, puffing on his cigar. Face took a few steps forward and sat across from him, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

"You know, kid," Hannibal started quietly, "sometimes you just gotta trust me."

"I do trust you," Face said, flatly. "Implicitly."

"But you're worried that I'm not going to watch out for Murdock?"

"It's not that." Face paused for a moment to light his cigarette. As he clicked the Zippo closed again, he glanced back up. "What you're talking about here is tempting fate. And you're right - it's not you that I'm worried about."

"You've got a job to do, Lieutenant. Do it well, and everyone walks away. This is right up your alley, kid. It's what you're known for."

"Pulling my own team out of a trap they set themselves up for? No, I can't say as I've ever done that before."

Hannibal smiled, genuinely. His voice rang with confidence as he continued. "You can handle it."

Face looked away. He wasn't going to argue. "I just want to know why him. Even if you think he could do it, why put him through that?"

"Can you think of another pilot you trust to crash into the jungle without killing us all?"

"No," Face admitted. "But I can think of a few other pilots who might hold up better in a POW camp. You know he hasn't been the same since he came back."

"Think any of those other pilots would volunteer?"

Face frowned. "I don't know that I'd call Murdock's response a 'volunteer'. Have you even talked to him about this? Really talked to him?"

"You've done similar snatches before, Face. I don't expect to make it past their local base."

"So we can find out where it is," Face continued. "I heard the briefing. But I still –"

"I can do it." The voice startled both of them. Murdock stood on the lowest step of the stairs leading down into the TOC.

Face glanced at him, then looked away. He kept his mouth shut, keeping his attention on his cigarette. It wasn't his place to interfere here.

"But I'd kinda like to know too," Murdock continued quietly. "Why is it you want me?"

"Because you're part of the team," Hannibal answered immediately.

A slight smirk crept across Mortar's face. "I could be the part of the team that comes to extract you, too," he pointed out. "So you really just want me for my spectacular crashing abilities?" The smile remained in place, but his eyes darkened. "You do realize that last time you were in a chopper I crashed, it wasn't so spectacular. People actually died."

"I have full confidence in you."

"So this is a confidence building thing? 'Cause I can sure as hell think of a few other methods I'd like a lot better."

Face glanced up and caught Hannibal's eye, then looked to Murdock.

"I said I can do it," Murdock clarified, stepping down into the room. "I didn't say I wanted to. I will, but I could think of a few things I'd rather do with my weekend. Like fighting off a pack of rabid monkeys with my bare hands."

"We won't let them get you to the prison," Face promised, his voice low.

"To be honest, I'm just as worried about how I'm supposed to crash a chopper in that area without hurting or killing anyone, and how the hell we're supposed to get out when this is all over." Murdock crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. "The place you're talking about is tier three jungle. Our chances of even getting a MacGuire rig down in there are slim to none. The chances of falling safely in a helicopter through all those trees are about the same. It'll be luck of the draw, Colonel. And even if I can pull it off – which I still don't understand 'cause I could just as easily drop you all down there and come pick you back up - and we all get out okay, I guarantee you that chopper is not going to be recoverable. They're really willing to lose aircraft over this?"

"They really are," Hannibal nodded. "It's already been authorized."

"Why? It doesn't add up, Colonel." Murdock's gaze remained fixed on him. "What aren't you telling us?"

Hannibal stared back at him, silent for a long moment. Face glanced up, noting the lack of response, and watched Hannibal curiously. He was hiding something? That was unlike him. _Very _unlike him. From the beginning, he'd been forthcoming about every aspect of their missions – even with Murdock, who had no need-to-know and technically didn't even have the security clearance to sit in on the briefings. What the hell could he possibly be hiding?

"Colonel?" Face prodded, suddenly curious.

Hannibal sighed deeply, and lowered his eyes. "It's a black op," he said quietly. "I don't know the details. But we want them to find the chopper and we want them to find me. Whether or not either come back seems... inconsequential."

Face raised a brow. "Inconsequential? To Westman?"

"Westman's not running this."

"Well, who the hell is?"

"Listen, if this goes bad..." He paused for a long moment, looking straight at Face. "You can't know any of this."

"You didn't answer my question," Face said firmly. "Who the hell has the authority to go over Westman's head? The President himself? Give me a break."

"My orders from Westman were to follow the instructions of the men I spoke to."

"Who were, what? Agency?"

"Probably. I don't honestly know."

"Oh, hell, Hannibal." Face pushed a hand through his hair. Working for the Agency _never _ended well. "Where did you talk to them?"

"Saigon, two days ago. It's where I went when I gave you all the day off."

Murdock's arms were crossed tightly over his chest. "So... some guys who were maybe Agency but you don't know told you to crash a chopper so the NVA could find it and take you POW. Right?"

Hannibal smiled. "That's about it, yeah."

If Face had been skeptical before, he was downright worried now. "Hannibal, that is so many levels of wrong."

"There's a man in the camp I need to talk to," Hannibal said. "And he has to stay there. Beyond that, they didn't seem to care how we wrap it up. That's why I need you."

"A prisoner?"

"No. A VC double agent."

Face shook his head. "I don't like this. They're willing to sacrifice an American colonel with your security clearance for a VC double agent? There's something very wrong here. Something they're not telling you."

"It doesn't change anything, Face." Hannibal's gaze was steady on him. "I'm going in, and you're getting me out – and any other Americans who are in there would be a plus. And if anyone ever asks you, at any point, it was a simple POW snatch. And we're crashing because we don't want them to know what we're trying to do."

Murdock laughed, without humor. "I don't think that in their wildest dreams any one of them would think that you are trying to get taken POW."

Face closed his eyes, dragged deeply on his cigarette, and ran a hand through his hair. Murdock turned to pace a few steps in the other direction, hands over his face. "So in this new scenario," Face finally managed, "is there a reason why Murdock is going with you?"

"Because they want this operation strictly American. No CIDG, no Vietnamese pilot."

Face shook his head, eyes still closed. Finally, with one more drag on his cigarette, he looked back up at Hannibal. "Have I mentioned how much I _don't _like this assignment?"

Hannibal smiled faintly. "You and me both, kid." He paused for a moment, and his smile turned more genuine. "But you just do what you do best and let me worry about the Agency bastards. Or whoever the hell they are. They're my problem; not yours."

"No, my problem is pulling you both out of a POW camp," Face reminded him, bitterly. "I could think of a hundred other things I'd rather be doing."

Hannibal held his gaze for a long moment, then turned his eyes to the pilot, who was leaning forward against the wall, his back to them. "Murdock?"

He didn't turn.

"You could say no. They said I had to take an American pilot; they didn't say it had to be you."

Murdock didn't answer in the long silence that followed. Hannibal was waiting for a decision.

"I'd understand."

Finally, Murdock he stood up straighter, dropped his hand off the wall, and shook his head as he turned around. "Look..." He hesitated for a long moment as he locked stares briefly with Hannibal, then with Face. "You've got the record on POW snatches. Thirty-seven of them, right? Some of those singlehandedly."

It was more than that, but Face didn't correct him.

"I trust that. And I trust you." He looked to Hannibal. "I don't trust whoever it is that's running the show here, but I do trust your orders. As far as I'm concerned, I'm not in this for their sake – especially if I'm not even supposed to know about them. I'm under your orders. And I've told you before there's nothing I wouldn't do. If you're going in there, walking into a death trap, how the hell could I _not _go with you?"

Hannibal studied him for a long moment, then finally nodded. As Murdock forced a tight smile, Face turned and left the TOC without a word.

"Go with Face," Hannibal ordered, gesturing for Murdock to follow. "He'll help you get your gear together."


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"There was something about the strategy of it." Face's eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling as he reflected quietly. "Having to outsmart them, before, during, and after. I guess it's the same sort of way that Hannibal still looks at everything. Every mission."

He took in a sharp breath through his teeth as she carefully applied lidocaine to the burns on his arm.

"Shit, that hurts."

"It's lidocaine. It'll numb it."

He groaned slightly, eyes shut. "I've had gunshot wounds hurt less than that burn."

"Burns are nasty," she sympathized. "I'd rather deal with blood any day of the week."

He slowly untensed as the stinging gave way to numbness, and picked up his train of thought again.

"You'd think that feeling - that rush - would be the same now. When we find people that have been kidnapped or pull them out of hostage situations. But it doesn't. It's just not as..."

He trailed off, and she raised a brow, closing the bottle and tossing the remains of the aloe stem into the trash. "Dangerous?"

He glanced at her. "It's not as... intimate. You look at a POW's eyes and you know that it just as easily could've been you. First time you realize that, you never feel safe again except for when you're on the offensive."

"So that's why you liked it?" she guessed. "Because it put you on the offensive?"

He smiled faintly. "I was on the offensive every time I got dressed in the morning."

**1970**

Face walked into the empty team room with Murdock a half step behind and gave a simple order as he headed immediately for his locker. "Strip, flyboy."

Murdock blinked, surprised, and hesitated for just a moment before complying. His eyes never left Face, who was busy rummaging through the contents of the locker. It was amazing that in the course of two days – the length of time they'd been at the camp – Face had managed to acquire so much crap. Either that, or he'd done a damn good job of packing all of that into a very small space in the single bag he'd brought with him, in addition to his pack.

Murdock's already-sterile fatigues were laid out on his cot when Face returned, and he was perched beside them, legs crossed, wearing only his boxers. Face dropped a few small bags on the cot before sitting down himself, on the other side of the fatigues. Without glancing up, he handed Murdock a small scalpel from somewhere inside of his shirt.

"Take all the buttons off."

Curious, Murdock complied. Out of the corner of his eye, he was watching as Face produced a somewhat larger knife, grabbed Murdock's boot from off the floor, and wedged the blade into the rubber sole, prying it away. "When you're caught," Face explained, his voice flat and emotionless, "they're going to search you."

"I remember," Murdock said. "I've been through this once before, you know."

"Shut up and listen."

Face paused just long enough to shoot a glare in his direction. Murdock fell silent.

"They'll take everything out of your pockets, your jacket, and your pack. They'll take your gun. But they're going to be so interested in whatever maps and knives and possible intelligence they can get off you, the chances that they're going to strip search you – at least initially – are pretty slim."

Murdock slit the last of the threads, and set the scalpel on his thigh as he pulled the thread from the buttons. "Unless they're like Captain Dai."

Face glanced up, a cold look that was unmistakably non-conversational, but his hands never stopped working. Once he'd opened the soles of both boots, he reached for one of the bags he'd brought and dumped the contents on the cot. Murdock looked it all over carefully. Small compasses, PVC tape, rolled cling film, fishing hooks and line, a sewing kit and thread, and...

"Tampons, Face?" Murdock raised a brow, curious. "Are those standard issue?" He almost laughed, but bit it back.

Face didn't flinch. He unraveled a few inches of the fishing line, withdrew one of the sewing needles, and handed both to Murdock. "Two functions, pilot," he said flatly. "One, they burn _real _well if you need to start a fire. Two," he grabbed one of the small, wrapped feminine hygiene instruments and held it up, "if you get a hole in your chest? Say from a bullet? They're sterile. And they're better at plugging that hole than just about anything."

Murdock stared at him. "I never would've thought of that," he admitted.

Face dropped the tampon back on the cot and gestured to the needle and fishing line. "Put the buttons back on with that. Keep it all one continuous line, like this." Face turned the edge of his half-unbuttoned shirt inside out so that Murdock could see the fishing line run between the buttons.

"What's the fishing line for?" Murdock asked, curious.

"Whatever you need it for." Face grabbed the fishing hooks and wrapped them in PVC tape before inserting them carefully into the space he'd created in the sole of Murdock's boot. "Whatever you can smuggle through that first search is all you've got to rely on for your escape."

"I thought you were coming in to do that for us."

"That's the plan. But if something goes wrong..."

Murdock shifted uneasily, and went back to sewing. "Right."

Face wrapped and inserted several needles into the soles of the boots as well, then used some kind of glue to reattach the two pieces of the boot.

"Am I going to have to worry about that coming apart?" Murdock asked.

"Not likely." Face dropped the boot back on the floor and reached for the other one. "Though I check mine to make sure before every drop."

"You always got this much stuff on you?"

"Yes." The other boot hit the floor, and Face grabbed another one of the needles, threading it with fishing line.

Murdock frowned. "Is that _normal_?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm just wondering if I missed some essential part of basic training that I need to go back and relearn."

"No. Most of this, I learned from Hannibal. Even the other SOG units weren't as serious about it as he was. Everyone thinks to conceal weapons. Nobody thinks to conceal condoms."

"Condoms?" Murdock raised a brow.

"Sure." He grabbed the pants, and carefully made a slit the seam at the bottom of them. "You ever think about the many uses for an unlubricated condom?"

"Can't say as I have."

"They're sterile, too. I've seen Cruiser use them over his fingers when he's gotta reach into a guy's leg to clear out a wound." Instead of setting the scalpel aside, he grabbed the PVC and wrapped the tiny blade before sliding into the hole he'd made. "They're waterproof, so they can be used to protect equipment, maps, whatever else you don't want getting wet. And they can hold water, too – about a pint and a half – but you've got to put them in a sock for that, 'cause they'll break."

"Definitely never thought of that."

"Do you know how to use a flint and steel fire kit?"

Murdock smiled. "Boy scouts 101."

"Good." Face emptied another bag, and rummaged for a moment until he found the kit, then slid the steel hook into the slit as well.

Almost an hour later, Murdock was redressed. He looked no different. But with a wire saw fed into the waistband of his BDUs, scalpels and needles and hooks hidden everywhere, a few concealed condoms and tampons, and a compass to boot, he felt strange.  
"I'm half-expecting something to jab at me," he admitted.

"You'll get used to it."

He wasn't sure he wanted to get used to it.

As a finishing touch, Face handed him a handkerchief much like the one that was perpetually wound around his neck. He'd never thought about it before, but as he stared at the crude map printed on one side of it, he suddenly understood. "There's another map on rice paper under the insole of your left shoe."

"Not much here," Murdock said with a frown.

"Only the basics. You're not going to have any instruments to tell you things like latitude and longitude. That's the area around this camp - a ten mile radius. We're hoping to get you picked up right about here," he pointed to an unmarked spot on the handkerchief.

Murdock nodded slowly, then wound the handkerchief before tying it around his neck. "Hey, Face?"

"Yeah?" Face was busy gathering the items back into the bags.

"You sure this is going to work?"

He sounded unsure, nervous. Face cast a lingering glance in his direction, then forced as reassuring a smile as he could manage.

"It'll work, Murdock. It's not the first time I've pulled a couple of guys out of a prison camp. All of this is just a precaution."

*X*X*X*

The chopper started to fall the instant the engine was cut. Almost without thought, Murdock followed procedure, pulling back and spinning into an autorotation. But he only had so long before it didn't really matter what he did. As they plunged through the trees, he had no control. They were tossed back and forth on whatever they happened to land on. Murdock shut his eyes and prayed that the near-empty fuel tanks didn't explode. It didn't take very much JP4 to kill them all.

They were still fifteen feet up when they stopped falling. Finally, Murdock let out the breath he'd been holding and reached for the intercom with a shaky hand. "Everyone alright back there?"

It took a minute for a reply. "That was one hell of a landing, flyboy."

Murdock smiled tightly. "Thank you for flying Miracle Airlines; please watch your step as you exit the aircraft."

He glanced to the door that was wedged against the thick trunk of a tree. He was trapped. Unhooking the harness, he writhed his way out of it, and looked first at the other door, then at the cracked windshield. He wasn't sure which would be his best bet.

Maneuvering his way out of the seat was a miracle in and of itself. Already too tall to fit comfortably in the seat, he certainly didn't have the space to wind his way around the controls. It took him several attempts before he was able to pull himself up. The chopper was on its side, and he had to climb to get to the other door. Once there, he spent several minutes trying to open it before concluding that it was, in fact, jammed.

Finally, he withdrew his pistol and cracked the handle against the broken windshield. It took several well-aimed blows before the glass finally broke, and he cleared away a hole big enough to squeeze through. By the time he'd climbed out of the chopper and down the tree, the rest of the team was already on the ground. At least, most of them were...

"Where's BA?" he asked.

"Setting charges on the chopper," Hannibal answered, fastening his pack. The VC would confiscate that pack, he knew. Whatever he had in there, he was knowingly and willingly handing over to them. It made for an interesting assortment of gear and propaganda.

Face handed Hannibal's gun back and Cruiser passed him a vial of clear fluid, with a deathly serious look, "just in case." Murdock wasn't sure what it was, but Hannibal dropped it into his shirt rather than his pack or his pocket. As BA dropped to the ground, he handed Hannibal a detonator. "All set to go."

"You guys better get out of sight," Hannibal warned. "If Murdock hit those coordinates, that camp could be anywhere around here."

"Hit 'em right on, Colonel," Murdock said quietly.

Face checked his gun once more, then exchanged glances with Cruiser and BA. "Alright, let's go. And remember, if they see us, we've blown it."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

Jess was listening quietly, even as her mind was carefully running through an assessment that had been drilled into her since her first day of nursing school. She had done all that she could, and she would have to trust that Hannibal would have made sure anything serious had already been addressed. Standing up, she pulled the gloves off and tossed them in the trash, then quickly washed her hands. She was proud of how efficiently and smoothly she put everything back into the first aid kit, as if none of this was unusual. As if there was no cause for alarm.

She set a hand on his shoulder gently before turning towards the cabinet to put the first aid kit away. He didn't shy away this time. In fact, to her surprise, he placed his hand over hers, holding it as she turned away. Startled by his firm grip, she turned to look at him again.

His eyes were pleading, but he didn't speak. He didn't have to. She'd seen that look before, in the eyes of the weak and wounded who just needed a comforting presence. Instead of recoiling at her touch, he was seeking it. Something familiar and safe and secure.

Thank God.

She turned back and ran her free hand through his hair. He leaned into it, almost nuzzling her, and moved his hand from hers to slide his arm around her waist. Her heart almost melted right there. It didn't matter who he was, or what position he held in her life. The way he was hugging her, his head resting against her stomach, appealed to mothering instincts in her that she'd never thought she could feel towards a full grown - and fully functional - man.

"It's okay, Face," she whispered softly, combing her fingers through his hair.

It was so strange to see him so unguarded. It felt wrong to be witnessing this; much less to be a part of it. This level of intimacy was... what? She paused as she considered that. What was it? Really, it was no more than one desperate soul reaching out to another. She'd seen it before; felt it. Her emotional intimacy with the broken and dying boys in Vietnam had known no bounds. But that had been a very long time ago. And it had never been Face.

He was quiet for a long moment, perfectly still, clinging to her the way a child clung to his mother. Very slowly, she could feel herself shifting from doctor, to nurse, to friend. He needed a friend right now. That was what had brought him to her doorstep – not his injuries. She was sure of that much.

He pulled away slowly and looked up at her as he released her from the embrace. "You don't have to listen to all this, you know."

She laughed quietly, still stroking his hair. "You know, for such a smart guy, you sure can be a complete idiot sometimes."

He gave a slight smile, and lowered his eyes.

"Why don't you take these clothes and make yourself comfortable while I clean this stuff up?"

He hesitated for only a moment, then slowly stood and took the sweats, withdrawing from her as he backed toward the door. As he disappeared around the corner, she drew in a long, shaky breath and struggled to push down everything that look in his eyes made her feel.


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

**1970**

Face held his breath, holding to the limb of the tree as they passed beneath him. Six men with six AKs and Hannibal's M-16. They had Murdock's pistol, too. Both were loaded with faulty ammunition. God help the man who tried to fire either one. But no sense in giving them a working weapon to shoot Americans with.

It hadn't taken the VC long to find them. After the explosion, it had been only a matter of minutes. They had feigned unconsciousness, and let the VC walk right up to them. There hadn't been a single shot fired in the capture.

Face knew they didn't realize what they had. The highest award in the North Vietnamese Army was given to any man who could prove he'd killed an American. The Special Forces were especially a treat. But a Special Forces colonel? For one thing, it was almost unheard of to find a colonel in the field. And on a recon unit, Hannibal was the only one that Face had ever known. He truly was one of a kind. He was one hell of a catch.

His captors didn't know that yet. Their ignorance could work to his advantage or his disadvantage. Face knew what Hannibal was counting on – the success of this mission was contingent on the fact that they wouldn't kill him before they got him back to the camp. Him... or Murdock. Unfortunately, that was as far as the planning could go; until they saw the layout and fortifications of said camp, they had no idea what they were up against.

Every few words, Face caught one that he knew. Murdock would understand perfectly, but his captors didn't know that either. Face was pleasantly surprised to see how well the pilot was keeping his head. He and Hannibal had both put on an impressive show of confusion when the soldiers had screamed orders at them. They knew right when to comply before they got themselves shot.

The six-man escort moved quickly. Face was glad for that; it made them less alert. They were excited about their catch. He kept his eyes on them until they passed out of his line of sight. Cruiser was up ahead, and he'd watch them pass. Face waited, watching the brush until he saw the vague outline of a man in camouflage. He whistled sharply, a sound that was lost amongst the screeching of the monkeys. BA heard it, and found Face almost instantly. Face gestured, directing him after the entourage that had passed, and BA waved back before disappearing after them.

Face took a deep breath, then swung down, landing in the center of the path in a crouch. He took just a moment to adjust the heavy weapon slung over his shoulder, then ducked into the heavy foliage again. They had to keep up. If they lost them, this would not end well.

*X*X*X*

The camp was small – thirty yards from end to end and no perimeter security except a platform in one of the trees that served as a guard tower. Two tiny bamboo cages held a few Vietnamese inside. Several men with AK-47s rose from around the fire pit as their patrol approached with the two blindfolded prisoners.

Face scanned the tents for signs of movement. He'd counted thirteen, including the men from the patrol. But he still had no clear indication of who was in charge. Regardless, they definitely had the advantage, as long as the camp soldiers didn't know they were there. Prisoner snatches from these camps weren't hard once the prisoners were found. It was even easier when they could simply hide in the trees and eliminate the enemy one by one, although that wasn't an option right now. They had no idea which one of those soldiers was the guy Hannibal had to talk to. And Face didn't imagine it would go over too terribly well if they ended up shooting their contact.

"How long we gotta wait?" BA whispered, moving closer and lying in the mud beside Face.

"'Til nightfall," Face whispered. "We'll have to get them out quietly, without shooting up the camp."

"Why?"

Face frowned as his eyes lingered on the cages, and the bloody, beaten men that stood against the bars, craning to catch a glimpse of the two new prisoners. "Because those are our orders," he said flatly.

*X*X*X*

The darkness was thick, under three layers of jungle canopy. The few shadows cast by the fire in the center of the camp were not enough to enable anyone to see clearly. Three additional men had come back from patrol, and two in the tents had brought the count up to eighteen in the camp. Half of them were asleep. The guard in the tree had been changed. They were settled for the night, and Hannibal and Murdock were both locked in the bamboo cages, relatively unharmed and, to Face's pleasant surprise, still fully dressed.

Face had been so still for so long, his muscles ached when he finally moved them. As he rose to a crouch, BA and Cruiser rose on either side of him. "Alright," he whispered, looking first to BA. "Get over there and keep that guy in the guard tower quiet. Don't kill him."

"Don't kill him?" BA asked, surprised.

"What the hell is he supposed to do?" Cruiser challenged. "Ask nicely?"

"Knock him out," Face suggested. He glanced back and forth at the bewildered looks on both of their faces and sighed. "Alright, look. Someone in this camp is a double agent, and we don't know who. If we kill him, we have failed this mission. So do _not_ kill these guys. We get our guys out and back away slowly. Clear?"

Cruiser and BA exchanged worried glances, but neither protested. BA turned and slipped away silently as Face turned his attention to the cages. "Anything else we should know about this assignment that _wasn't _in the briefing?" Cruiser asked coldly.

"You know what I know," Face whispered back. "It's some kind of black op. They didn't give us details."

Cruiser sighed. "So how are we supposed to get them out of here without killing anybody?"

Face moved back, away from the clearing. "Come with me."

He circled wide, around the perimeter until they were close to the cages. Once there, he slipped out of his pack, leaving it on the ground as he fumbled through the front pockets. He heard the scuffle at the guard tower, and glanced up as two of the four men who'd been guarding the cages headed in that direction. Three of them. BA could probably handle three of them. He had the darkness on his side, after all. Still, Face didn't like trusting their lives – or the success of their mission - to "probably."

Face opened a small bottle, and Cruiser watched carefully as he soaked a rag, holding it away from him. Then he handed the bottle to Cruiser. "Chloroform. Go help BA."

Cruiser took it. "What about you?"

"Go."

Cruiser didn't argue. As he disappeared, Face scanned the camp. Two men by the cages, on opposite sides. Pressed low to the ground, Face crawled across the space between the edge of the clearing and the cages. Hannibal was easy to find. He was sitting with his back to the bamboo bars, awake and alert.

"Ready to get out of here, Hannibal?"

Hannibal wasn't startled by the whisper, as if he'd known exactly how close Face was. "What took you so long?"

Face smiled. "Miss me?"

He grabbed his knife off of his belt and slit the ropes around Hannibal's wrists, then pulled the two rags apart and placed one in his hands. Hannibal didn't speak, didn't move as Face crawled around the side of the cage and to the other one. He caught a glimpse of Murdock, but didn't stop long enough to make eye contact. Murdock was just as alert, though the other man in his "cell" was deep asleep, slouched against the bars.

"Hey!" Hannibal's voice seemed so loud in the stillness, it almost made Face jump. Both guards turned to look at him. "I want to launch a complaint for the way this was –"

"_Yen lang_!" the guard near him snapped.

"What?" Hannibal demanded. "Sorry, pal, you're gonna have to speak English if you want me to understand you."

Hannibal had attracted the attention of the prisoners. The one sitting beside him had awoken, and was staring at him in wide eyed horror. It kept everyone's eyes off of Face, who was inching closer to the guard standing in front of the cage where Murdock and the sleeping Vietnamese were tied to the bars.

A few more rounds of threats from the guard were without effect, and Hannibal laughed at his mounting frustration. Finally, the desired effect – he stepped up to the bars, jabbing the barrel of his gun in Hannibal's direction. In one smooth movement, Hannibal was on his feet, lunging through the bars. He grabbed the gun first – confident that the VC wouldn't relinquish his hold on it without a fight – and jerked it hard enough to shake the man's grip. He didn't find the trigger fast enough to get a shot off before Hannibal shoved the rag into the man's face, reaching through the bars to grab the back of his head.

Hannibal was fast. The other guard had no time to process what he was seeing before it was done. As the shock registered, he raised his gun just in time to find himself crashing to the ground. Face flipped him over, a knee holding down his wrist to keep him from getting a hold on the gun again, and pressed the chloroform rag into his face hard enough to muffle the cry. Several seconds of struggling was followed by silence, and Face took the gun as he moved off of the man.

He took a few quick steps to Hannibal, handing him a knife through the bars, then turned his attention to the other cell where Murdock was watching with wide eyes. The knives were sharp, but it still took several tries to cut through the vines that held the door of the bamboo cage shut. Face had to crouch to step inside. He cut the ropes around Murdock's hands, then around the wrists of the other man. The Vietnamese prisoner was too weak to walk, and it took Murdock and Face under each arm to drag him out of the cage. With one final, quick glance at Hannibal, who was helping the other Vietnamese to crawl out of the cage, they stumbled away.

The shots were not unexpected. Even as efficient as they had been, it was still a very small camp. Hannibal's shout alone was enough to draw the other soldiers. But they had the darkness on their side. As Face made it to the tree line, he handed off his position to Cruiser, then turned back to spray the air with bullets from his CAR-15. They went over the heads of the men in the camp, but it was enough to deter them from running after the escaping prisoners full speed ahead. BA, standing next to him, fired a few long sprays into the air as well. Then, as Hannibal and the Vietnamese passed, they backed away, still firing into the sky to give them time to get away.

"Come on," Hannibal ordered, clapping Face's shoulder. "Before they circle around us."

Face stopped firing, and turned to follow Hannibal. BA was only a few steps behind.

It didn't take long for them to get split up in the pitch blackness. It also didn't take long to determine that they were better off hiding than running through the dark in opposite directions. As Face stood guard, Hannibal and BA helped the weakened, exhausted Vietnamese to crawl up into one of the trees. BA went with him, leaving Hannibal and Face on the ground.

"You get your message delivered?" Face asked, taking a long drink of water. He was still trying to catch his breath.

"Yeah."

Face glanced at him. "Think Murdock and Cruiser will be alright out there 'til dawn?"

Hannibal nodded. "Cruiser's got a compass and a map. Even if we can't find them, they'll find the LZ before we call for the extraction tomorrow."

"So that's it?" Face asked.

Hannibal smiled. Face sighed deeply. This whole damn thing seemed like a waste of time and energy."

"Look at it this way, kid. It's forty-two now, isn't it?"

Face glared at him briefly and Hannibal laughed before turning to climb up into the tree.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"Some of the stunts we pulled off were just..." Face shook his head as he trailed off. "It's a wonder that I'm not addicted to that adrenaline the way Hannibal is."

"You may not be addicted," Jessica granted, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed he was stretched out on. "But you must get some enjoyment out of it. Otherwise, I can't imagine you would still be doing things that could get you killed."

He was lying on his stomach with his unhurt arm tucked underneath him. The position kept the pressure off the wounds on his back – wounds she couldn't quiet keep her eyes off of. The welts probably felt better when they weren't being touched by anything. But the unfortunate side effect was that it gave her a full view of all the damage that had been done to him.

"Anything can get you killed, Jess," he said quietly. "And I've never been afraid to die."

"Afraid? Heaven forbid."

"Death never had anything to do with it. It was the thrill. The rush."

"Of defying death?"

"No. Of taking something."

She raised a brow, curious. It was strange to hear him talk like this. He _never_ talked about Vietnam. He certainly never talked about the kinds of things he did over there.

"Taking something?"

The smile on his lips was genuine. "It was the power," he whispered, eyes sliding closed. "The satisfaction of knowing that I'd pulled one over on the bastards – took something that they had, that they wanted to keep, and told them they couldn't have it because I said so."

She laughed quietly. "I never thought of it that way."

"I did." He opened his eyes and looked at her with a smile. "I _always_ thought of it that way."


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

Face's quiet reflection had faded into a wordless, wistful stare. He seemed almost startled when she said his name, calling him out of his reverie. "Huh?"

She smiled. "This is all very fascinating," she said softly. "But you still haven't told me what happened to you."

He was quiet for a moment, staring at her. Then, slowly, he lowered his eyes away. "It's different now," he whispered. "I can't believe how different."

"What's different?"

"The... satisfaction. It's not there."

She watched him for a long moment. All of this was background. It was preparatory for the explanation she really wanted.

"Face, what happened to you?" she asked quietly. "That war is long over. You shouldn't have wounds like this."

He shut his eyes, and shook his head. "I don't even know where to start, Jess."

"Start at the beginning."

His eyes were glazed when he opened them again, staring past her to the wall on the other side of the room. For a long moment, he was quiet, lost in his thoughts.

"There's no way to win," he finally whispered. His voice, and his eyes, were so far away. "We _knew_ there was no way to win. We did it anyways."

"Did what?" she asked, watching him closely. "What did you do?"

He took a deep breath, and let it out slow, hiding his face in his hands. "Hannibal got the job about a week ago..."

**SUNDAY, MARCH 23**

**1986**

Hannibal jolted awake at the first sign of stirring from the bed beside him. "It's alright. Go back to sleep." But he was already awake.

Raising a hand to cover his eyes – damn, that sunlight burned – he shook his head. "It's morning."

"Yes, but you've hardly slept. You've been tossing and turning all night."

Gradually, he lifted his hand off of his eyes and blinked a few times at the bright light. Maggie was already sitting up on the side of the bed, her back turned to him. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to get it all to point in the same direction, if not lay flat.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone as restless as you've been tonight." She glanced back and saw him watching her. "At least not anyone who isn't injured."

"I'm fine," he mumbled, lowering his hand over his eyes again.

"No, you're not." She paused for a long moment, and the bed shifted as she turned, pulling her legs up and crossing them in front of her. "But since you're so wide awake and I've got at least an hour before anybody shows up at my door, maybe you'd like to tell me about what happened yesterday."

"What happened?" he asked, innocently.

She chuckled, and he knew right then that there was no way in hell he would be able to convince her that nothing had happened. And after all, it wasn't that hard to figure out. He made phone calls to Black Rock frequently. They even met for dinner. But rarely did he show up on her doorstep unannounced. When he did, it was a pretty good indication that something was wrong. Something significant enough to warrant an "escape" from LA. Black Rock was safe – away from Decker and anyone else who regarded him with hostility. Away from the team, although they knew where to find him. They wouldn't call him while he was here unless it couldn't be helped. If there was any place in the world that he should've been able to sleep easy, it was here.

"Tell you what," Maggie bartered. "Save it 'til breakfast. I'm going to go take a shower."

He opened his eyes again and watched as she swung her legs to the floor. Her nightgown fell around her ankles as she stood and walked to the dresser. A moment later, she'd gathered her things and disappeared from the room.

Hannibal sighed, and turned onto his back, rubbing his forehead. What a night. He hadn't slept, and he _felt _like he hadn't slept. And yet everything from the night before was sort of a blur. He'd knocked on the door, they'd had a quiet and somewhat uncomfortable dinner, and she'd persuaded him that he was too tired to drive back to LA. It hadn't been a difficult argument for her to win. He hadn't particularly wanted to drive back to LA.

Turning his head to glance out the window, he caught a glimpse of the alarm clock. Almost seven. Time to get up. Damn, he wished he wasn't so tired. As relieved as he was that the long, fretful night was over, he sure as hell wasn't ready to face the day. He sat up reluctantly. His back and neck hurt. His head was pounding. Oh, this was going to be one hell of a morning.

Already fully dressed from the night before, he stumbled from the bed to the kitchen. Coffee. Maybe it would brighten his outlook on life. Maybe it would even get rid of the headache. At the very least, it would wake him up.

It was almost a half hour later, and the coffee was brewed, when Maggie stepped into the kitchen – dressed for the day and toweling her hair dry. He handed her a cup as she gravitated toward the coffee pot. "Thank you."

"I made it weak, so you would drink it."

She laughed. "You mean you didn't make it into that sludge you drink?"

He smiled.

"I just remembered, I told Hank I'd meet him for breakfast this morning. But there's cereal or eggs if you want it."

He shook his head. "I'm fine with just the coffee."

"So." She sat down at the table, not missing a beat. "What's going on with you?"

"You sure you have time? When are you supposed to meet the Sheriff?"

She smirked. "Nice try. But it'll be another thirty minutes at least before he gets here. He's not a morning person."

Hannibal nodded, leaning back on the counter, but didn't respond.

"So spill it. You were upset when you got here. It kept you up all night. What's going on with you?"

He hesitated a moment before looking back up at her. He almost wanted to tell her. Not that she needed to know, but she didn't _need_ to be kept in the dark, either. Ultimately, it made very little difference if he talked to her. And she might even understand, at least to some extent.

"I talked to a woman yesterday," he started quietly, pausing for a sip of his coffee. "She wants to hire us to find her father."

The long silence that followed was uninterrupted. Maggie didn't ask questions; she simply waited for him to continue. If he didn't want to talk, she'd never pry it out of him. But if he didn't want to talk, he probably would've left already. She knew that. So she waited expectantly.

"Her father served with me – under me – in 'Nam."

This time, he seemed to be looking for a response. She nodded slowly. "So you're... concerned about the danger?" she asked, confused. She couldn't even guess where he was going with this. "Or is it the other ramifications of meeting up with someone who... knows?"

What the man "knew" was left open. She didn't need to specify. They both understood. The specifics were never important. Old wounds were sometimes just better left sealed.

He sighed, and lowered his gaze. "Our chances of finding him are..." slim? "non-existent. She knows that. She still wants us to look."

"How long has he been missing?"

"The government just declassified a bunch of information and she found out that her father wasn't killed in South Vietnam; he was taken prisoner in Cambodia." He glanced up, and met Maggie's startled stare. "She thinks he's still alive."

Maggie's eyes widened. "A POW?"

"Yes."

"Fifteen years later?" The disbelief was evident in her tone.

"Seventeen."

She stared at him, speechless, and he sighed as he turned away. "Cambodia never reported having any POWs. Any man who went down there simply ceased to exist. They're still maintaining that. She's not getting any cooperation from the government, trying to go through the legitimate channels. There's a few groups that have been trying to get approved to go look for the remains of our soldiers. Even they don't actually think they'll find anybody alive. But the political atmosphere over there is unstable at best, and they're a little hostile towards groups of US citizens who want to come over and look for evidence of something they maintain never happened. You see the problem."

"So she thinks you'll have better luck," Maggie said quietly.

"She thinks her father's alive. I think she's wrong. But she's representing one of those organizations, and they're willing to fund our efforts – whether or not we actually succeed in finding anything."

"What could you possibly find?" Maggie asked. "Dog tags?"

Hannibal shook his head. "A few of the fliers might've had tags. But anybody who was on the ground over there was sterile."

"So what are you looking for?"

"Any proof of death or information on what might've happened to them. Idealistically, a living POW."

"That's very idealistic. You realize that."

Hannibal nodded.

Maggie sighed deeply. "Well, if you took someone with you who knows how to do it, you might be able to identify bones as being American or not. But even so, that's not going to positively identify the person. And if their government is not being cooperative, bringing those bones back might be a little difficult. And that's assuming you'll be able to find them in hundreds of square miles of jungle."

"Believe me, I'm not going out of my way to convince them that this is worth their money."

"Or your time?"

Hannibal stared at her for a long moment, eyes distant. Then he looked away.

"So why would you take the job?"

"I haven't taken the job."

"Why would you even _consider _taking the job?"

Hannibal didn't answer.

"Tell her you can't do it. Sooner or later, the truth will come out. They'll let people in there to find the remains. If it's ten or fifteen years down the road, so what?"

She studied Hannibal carefully. The way his eyes closed as he dropped his head. The way his fist clenched and released.

"Unless you're actually thinking there is a chance that someone might still be alive over there."

Hannibal's shoulders rose and fell as he sighed deeply. "I don't know. I can't imagine _why _they would keep them alive."

"So you want the closure?" she guessed.

He looked up, pained eyes swirling with confusion. It was startling. She'd never seen him this way. "If I could guarantee closure for those families, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"You can guarantee closure for yourself – that you did everything you could in the end."

"It's not that simple."

"Of course it's not. If it were, you'd be on a plane right now, not standing here talking to me."

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. "We could go over there and find absolutely nothing. And at that point, I've put my team through an excruciating experience for no reason."

"Well, just playing devil's advocate here, but the flip side of that is that you could go over there and find absolutely everything."

"And who's to say that wouldn't be even worse?"

Maggie blinked, startled. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it, Maggie." He sighed as he set the coffee cup on the counter and paced a few steps. "If these men are alive, we have to face them. And if we can find them and get them out now? Why the hell didn't we do it fifteen years ago? Or five years ago. Or five months. Or five weeks. Do you know how long five weeks is for a POW?"

She stared at him, stunned. Finally, after a long silence, she set her jaw. "Colonel, that is the most ridiculous thing I have heard you say in a very long time," she said firmly.

"Why is it so ridiculous?" he demanded.

"You're going to stand there and tell me that if those men are still alive, you won't go and get them on because you're afraid? Because of your guilty conscience?" The flicker of anger found its way to her eyes. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"That's not what I said."

"I can understand refusing the job because it has no chance of succeeding. But refusing it because of what you might find?"

"It has nothing to do with whether or not I'm taking the job," Hannibal snapped back, matching her tone. "But it _is_ a ramification that I'm going to have to deal with. A ramification for me, _and _my team."

"I'd say it's worth it to save a life, wouldn't you?"

"I never said it wasn't. I told you. That has nothing to do with whether or not we're taking this job."

"Then why bring it up?"

Hannibal stared at her for a long moment, then sighed as he looked away again. "Because you started off asking why I couldn't sleep last night. And that's why."

She was quiet, waiting for him to continue. With a deep sigh, he ran a hand over his face.

"It's personal, Maggie. This woman, her father... he was in my unit. On my team. I left him there. And I did it because I had to; I've never doubted that I had to. In the end, it wasn't even my call. But not a week goes by – even now – that I don't think about him at least once. I never thought we could find him. Never even thought it would be realistic to try. So why the hell am I thinking of doing it now, when it's less realistic than ever?"

"Because someone asked you to?"

"I've been asked before. Hell, Face made his opinion on the matter pretty clear when we were still in Vietnam."

"The rules were different then, and you know it."

"Yes. But I can't go through life living like the war isn't over!"

"So what are you saying?"

Hannibal was pacing. As the silence lingered, he stopped at the table and sat down, leaning forward with his head in his hands.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I never expected to have to make decisions like this again. If we can do a job, we do it. If we can't, we don't. There's principles, there's guidelines, there's cost-efficiency. All of that has to be taken into account. But it's never... It's not personal. Not like this."

She studied him, quiet for a few long seconds. Then, finally, she sighed. "Look. I lost people over there, too. Friends. Family. And as far as I'm concerned? I'm not about to go ripping open those wounds. Not for _anyone_."

She paused, and lowered her head, swirling the coffee that still remained in her cup.

"Nobody would blame you, Hannibal, if you said no. At least not anyone who's been in your position, who can understand the decision you have to make. Not me, not your team...

Hannibal stared at her with a pained expression.

"And not your man in Cambodia. Who, as you said, is probably not alive."

"And I believe that. So why can't I look this woman in the eye and tell her that there is no way in hell I am going back over there?"

She smiled faintly, and pushed her chair back as she rose to her feet. "Because it's not who you are, Hannibal."

She stopped as she passed him, and put an arm around his head, pulling him to her torso in a mothering hug. He didn't resist her, and didn't speak, only sighed deeply.

"And you and I both know that."


	6. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"He didn't tell me anything about the mission when he called," Face said quietly. "That's not unusual. A lot of times, he doesn't. But there was something about his voice. There was just something wrong."

He sat up, clearly uncomfortable, and tried a few different positions before he finally settled for crossing his legs in front of him and leaning forward on them. He wasn't moving quite right, and he winced in pain as he used both hands to pull his leg up closer.

"You need a Loratab?" she asked, watching him closely.

He shook his head. "Last thing I want right now is to be drugged."

"I'd rather see you drugged than in pain."

"No."

She sighed deeply as she moved closer and pushed a hand through his hair. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"You have no classified information to hide from me. You have no threat to make sure that you're prepared for."

He pulled his head away from her hand, and she set it back in her lap with a sigh. She could only hope that this wasn't some attempt to prove how macho he was. But then, that didn't seem like Face. Of course, rejecting pain medication didn't seem much like him either. Did he still feel threatened, somehow? Did he _want _to feel the pain? She wasn't sure which of those two possibilities worried her more.

He took in a deep breath and let it out slow. Then, finally, he opened his eyes again and looked up at her. "What was I saying?"

He sounded exhausted. Maybe he didn't want the medication because it would make him sleep. Maybe he needed to talk more than he needed to escape. He should've known she'd still be here in the morning, but he would've known that before he'd shown up on her doorstep, too.

"Hannibal called you," she reminded, inviting him to continue.

"Oh." He lowered his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Right."

**SUNDAY, MARCH 23**

**1986**

"How long has the patient been like this, nurse?"

The dark-haired woman, no older than twenty-five, was staring at Murdock in confusion and concern. "Not... very long," she stammered. "He was just fine this morning!"

"Fine? You call this fine!" Face flavored his lines with a little bit of frustrated anger, a good dose of worry, and a dash of panic. "This is the most advanced case of hastoicosis I've ever seen!"

She blinked. "Ha-... Hastoi-what?"

"The catatonic state, the twitching in his foot –" Murdock complied beautifully with the specifications of his new-found illness. "- the sweating, rapid breathing and heart rate... How did you not see this sooner!"

"I... I'm sorry, doctor." The accusation was enough to throw her off balance, even if she'd been hesitant to accept the rouse so far. "I'm not familiar with –"

"Oh, you're not familiar," he cut her off angrily. "Well, I don't know what school you got your degree from, lady, but they did you a great disservice if they didn't teach you about the dangers of hastoicosis!"

She shifted nervously. "Maybe I should get my supervisor..."

"Oh, never mind that!" Face waved his arms for good measure, exacerbating the situation. "I have to get this man down to quarantine before he infects the entire floor! Now sign these transfer papers."

He shoved the clipboard at her so hard, she had to take a step back in order to grab it. As she took it, she looked it over. Her hesitation was not a good sign. "I really should talk to the charge nurse before I –"

Murdock cut her off with a fit of coughing.

"Oh no," Face moaned, "it's progressed to the next stage!" He yanked the clipboard back. "Never mind. _I'll _go find your charge nurse. And I'll be sure to tell her that you were the one who was standing here arguing with me while this patient started coughing a potentially fatal disease all over this ward!"

"Oh!"

Finally, she was flustered. Murdock's fit of coughing and violent shaking probably helped in that regard. She took the clipboard, signed it, and gave it back to him before turning her attention to the agonized patient. "Oh, feel better, Mr. Murdock."

He responded with a pronounced cough in her direction and she jumped back. Face checked to make sure he had the signature and initials where he needed them, then tucked the clipboard under his arm as he grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.

"Thank you," he shot at the nurse.

Down the hall and into the elevator, no one stopped them. On the next floor down, a few people hesitated to get into the elevator with the coughing, hacking patient, and finally decided to wait for the next one. As the doors closed again, Face looked over the release papers in his hand.

"You can probably stop coughing now, Murdock."

"Oh, good. My throat was startin' to get sore." He looked up, over his shoulder, and smiled. "How you doin', Faceman?"

"Me? I'm fine. A little irritated to be missing lunch with Debbie but... fine."

Murdock smiled. The fling of the week was being cut a little short this time. It would almost be sad if he didn't know that Face would manage to replace her within ten minutes of his return from wherever it was they were going.

"Hannibal, on the other hand..."

Murdock raised a brow. "What about him?"

"I don't know. Something's got him spooked about this job."

"What job?"

"He won't talk about it until we're all there."

Murdock smiled, tapping his fingers against each other. His eyes danced. "Sounds pretty spooky."

Face sighed, and waited for the elevator doors to open before pushing Murdock out into the lobby, then right out through the front door. The van was waiting outside, and within seconds, they pulled away.

"What's this about, Hannibal?" BA asked as he pulled out onto the street. "What's this job you took that's got you actin' all weird?"

"I didn't take the job yet," Hannibal clarified. "She's only talked to Mr. Lee. But my gut says that she's going to check out, and I didn't want to give her any impression that we were willing to do this until we'd all decided on that together."

Face raised a brow. "It's that dangerous, that you want to vote on it?"

"No," Hannibal said firmly. "Not just a vote. If we're not _all _in agreement that this is something we want to do, then we're not taking the case."

There were warning lights flashing in Face's head at the tone, let alone the words. Then there was the non-verbal that was screaming at him. It was beyond strange to see Hannibal avoiding eye contact. He didn't seem nervous, or unsure, or – God forbid – frightened. The fact that he was putting this to them for a unanimous vote made it clear how he felt about it, himself. But there was definitely something wrong. Something dangerous.

"Who's the client?" Face asked. Start with the basics.

"Her name is Sarah Young," Hannibal said quietly, but confidently. "She's Devon Young's 22-year-old daughter."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"I met Devon Young when I first went over to Vietnam."

Face drew in a long, shaky breath. Resting his elbow on his knee, he used his thumb and forefinger to massage the bridge of his nose.

"He was stationed with me at Plei Me, A-255. We... were close."

Jessica watched him, listening with interest, but didn't speak.

"He left the camp to go into special ops. To find Hannibal, really. He volunteered to be on his team. And Hannibal took him."

"That was before you knew Hannibal, right?"

Face nodded, and hesitated a long moment. "Devon was more or less the reason I joined SOG. When he went MIA, he was definitely the reason I started doing POW snatches."

"Did they let you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Did they let you... choose missions that way?"

He sighed. "They gave Hannibal a lot of leeway in his missions. But before I knew him, it was mostly just... finding opportunities and taking them. It was top priority for me, and my team leader knew it. Luckily, we thought along the same lines. He never tried to stop me. Never tried to deter me. And we saved a lot of lives."

"But not Devon's," she whispered.

He was quiet for a long moment. "No, not Devon's. I never saw Devon again."

**SUNDAY, MARCH 23**

**1986**

"Who's Devon Young?" Murdock finally asked, breaking the silence that had settled in the van.

Face barely heard him. "What does she want?"

Hannibal looked up, meeting Face's stare. "The government just declassified a bunch of information. Including some papers on SOG and our MIA."

Face's eyes slid closed, and he leaned forward, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumbs.

"Sergeant Devon Young was part of my first team in Vietnam," Hannibal explained to Murdock. Both Face and BA knew exactly who he was. He'd been a source of conflict between Hannibal and Face for months after Face had joined the team. "When we were on patrol in Cambodia, we were ambushed. He was taken captive and I lost the entire team trying to get him back. I woke up in a hospital a few days later. They'd sent a team in to come and get me. Cruiser was that medic. It's how our paths initially crossed."

"So this was the team before you guys," Murdock asked cautiously, gesturing back and forth quickly between Face and BA.

"I knew Devon before he joined Hannibal," Face said quietly, into his hand. "It's complicated."

"He went missing in July of 68," Hannibal continued quietly. "And nobody's seen him since."

"Hannibal..." BA's voice was tight, brow furrowed. "Are you really sayin' what I think you sayin'?"

"His daughter thinks he's still alive," Hannibal offered, plainly.

Silence. After a long moment, it was Murdock who spoke first. "What do you think?"

Hannibal shook his head. "I don't think there's a chance in hell we'll find him alive. But we might find out what happened to him. With a huge stroke of luck, we might even find his remains."

He paused as BA pulled the van to a stop in the parking lot of a small playground. A few children were playing on the swings, parents watching from the picnic tables. But it was a fairly safe and neutral place to talk.

"But it does mean going to Cambodia," he continued quietly. "And it may mean seeing some things that we don't really want to see."

"How much does his daughter know?" Face asked, not looking up.

"Everything that was in my report. You've seen it."

"It's been a long time."

"I have it, if you want to look at it." Hannibal paused, studying Face. "If you don't, I understand."

Face was quiet, hunched forward with his forehead in his hand. Finally, without raising his eyes, he held out his other hand, palm up. Hannibal grabbed the folder from under his seat and placed it in Face's outstretched hand.

"BA?" Hannibal asked pointedly.

BA's brow was furrowed. He shook his head slowly. "I dunno, man. S'been a long time."

Hannibal didn't look at him. "You could say no," he said simply. "This isn't one that I'm going to twist your arm for."

BA was silent, watching out of the corner of his eye as Face finally worked up the nerve to open the folder in his lap. "I never knew this Devon Young," BA said quietly, seriously. "But you did."

He studied Hannibal carefully, and received a nod.

"And either way, he's one of our guys."

Hannibal nodded again.

"Which means he'd do it for me, if it was the other way around."

Hannibal hesitated a moment, then nodded before offering a very quiet, "I believe he would, yes."

BA took a deep breath. "Alright then. I'm in."

"Murdock?"

Murdock studied Hannibal for a moment, and nodded wordlessly.

"Alright then," Hannibal said quietly. "I still want to run her through a few more hoops, so it might be a day or two. But if she checks out, we'll leave as soon as possible."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"He wouldn't have taken the job if we hadn't all been in agreement," Face whispered. "I know he wouldn't have. There was no false sense of assurance, no 'we can do it', no pretense that it was supposed to be fun." He brought his eyes back to Jessica and his brow furrowed slightly as he considered his words. "It was strange."

"So why did you say yes?" She curled her legs in front of her, reaching for the pillow and hugging it to her chest.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I guess there was..."

"Hope?" she guessed when he didn't finish.

He shook his head. "Not really. A trail that's been cold for fifteen years? In a place I never wanted to see again?"

He gave a slight, self-deprecating laugh, and his eyes slipped out of focus again as he stared at the bedspread.

"We all knew the chances. When we said yes, we all knew the chances. We knew what we could find. We knew what we were most likely to find. But when he told me I... I had this vision of a little girl. And she wasn't a little girl; she was 22-years-old now. But that's not now I remembered her. That's not how Devon talked about her. And I just... If for no other reason than because it was my friend's daughter..."

He looked up, meeting Jessica's eyes with a pained stare.

"I couldn't have said no."


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

**TUESDAY, MARCH 25**

**1986**

"Sarah, this is BA Baracus, HM Murdock, and Templeton Peck."

Her eyes lingered on Face. "Templeton Peck," she repeated.

He nodded as he smiled. "Yes, that's me."

"That's an unusual name and it sounds very familiar. Have we met?"

Face hesitated for a long moment, then lowered his eyes a fraction, smile still in place. "I don't think so," he answered. "But I did know your father."

"Maybe that's it." She paused. "I've read his letters from Vietnam, over and over again. The ones he sent to my mother."

Face nodded wordlessly.

She took a deep breath as she glanced around. "I don't know much about you. Any of you. I know what the media says about you – that you help people. I know that officially, you're criminals." She let her eyes rest on Hannibal, steady and searching. "And I know that my father felt... honored to serve under you."

"Your father was a good soldier," Hannibal said quietly. "And a good man."

Sarah shut her eyes hard as she lowered her head. Face could feel her emotion from where he stood, and offered a Kleenex almost before the tears started flowing. After several, uneasy, quiet minutes, she pulled herself together.

"I'm sorry. I hardly even knew my father; I just wasn't old enough. But my mother... And all of this..."

"It's alright," Hannibal assured her. "We understand."

"Nobody has told us anything." She sniffled, and wiped her eyes again. "I know now that his name is actually on one list and not the other. But I still know almost nothing. And I'm not the only one. Hundreds of us are finding out this way, and we all have so many questions."

Hannibal nodded, solemnly. "We'll help in any way we can. But it would be foolish of me to say that we can make it all better with a few words, seventeen years later. And it would be even more foolish of me to promise that we can bring your father back when we don't know even know where to start looking."

"The chances that he might still be alive are slim to none," Face added. "And if by chance he is, seventeen years in those conditions will do a lot of damage."

Face couldn't think of any possible way to expect that they would find Devon Young alive.

"I just want to know what happened." She paused for a long moment. "When the man came to our door, I was only five-years-old. As soon as my mother saw him, she started crying. I listened from the hallway where they couldn't see me. He told her that my father had died on patrol in South Vietnam – that everyone was killed except for the team leader, who was badly injured. But they wouldn't tell us anybody else who was on that team. Or what they'd been doing. What they'd died for."

"When did you get the papers that you gave to Mr. Lee?" Hannibal eyed her carefully, cautious but not hostile.

She nodded. "They released some of his information to us after the war ended. It wasn't much, but it did name you as his commanding officer at the time he died. I don't know much about how the military works but I knew that if I ever wanted to know what had happened, I'd have to wait until they declassified that mission de-briefing. And even what they eventually gave me was still very... blotted. There's a lot of things they still don't want me to see."

Hannibal hesitated. She was waiting for something. An explanation, an offer of information. He proceeded carefully. "Lying to a soldier's family is something that none of us liked doing. But for the protection of those who were still operating in a dangerous area where secrecy was key, it was a necessary evil."

"I understand that," she said quietly. "And I understand the political issues and agendas that have prevented us from doing anything about this when the war ended. But we want to know. _I _want to know. And I have a right to know. I've waited a long time. And if my father is still alive, then he has a right to come home."

Hannibal lowered his head, quiet for a moment. "Rights, and rules, are measured differently for soldiers. Your father gave his life to and for his country. He relinquished a lot of his rights, for something bigger than himself. And for that, he is a hero."

"Yes, I know." She put her shoulders back, tipping her chin up slightly. "A man that I talked to – a man from the war – said that it costs almost a million dollars to train a soldier for Special Forces. The worth of everything is measured by the almighty dollar."

Hannibal smiled knowingly. "Not for us. As I said, I consider your father a hero."

"Which is why I'm here."

Hannibal exchanged glances with each member of his team, then started again, hesitantly. "Miss Young, I would be lying to you if I said that I thought we'll find your father – dead or alive."

She set her jaw, and pulled herself up even taller. "I believe he _is_ alive, Mr. Smith. But if he's not, I would be satisfied in knowing how, or even where he died." She paused for a moment, and swallowed hard. "If you go over there, and you look, and you come back here and look me in the eye and tell me that you cannot fathom that he could possibly be alive, I will believe you. But I cannot believe you now, when no one has ever looked for him."

Hannibal's eyes circled again, but no one voiced any protest. He wasn't surprised. The decision had been made before coming here, and she'd said nothing that they hadn't already considered.

"We will take the case," he finally said, looking back to the girl and locking eyes hard with her. "But I make no promises about the outcome. We may find nothing because there's nothing left to find. But we will give it our best effort for one week. If we have nothing by the end of that time, we're coming home."

She nodded, and swallowed hard as her eyes filled with tears again. "I understand."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"It never even crossed my mind how difficult it would be to talk to his daughter," Face said quietly. "To look at her and to see his eyes. It just made me remember so many things."

"Bad things?" Jessica asked quietly.

Face considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Just things about Devon."

"Like what?"

He hesitated a moment, then laughed slightly. "You know, it's funny. The age difference between me and Devon. It's about the same as the difference between me and his daughter. Makes me realize... I was just a kid when I was over there. Five years younger than she is now."

Jessica smiled faintly, sadly. "We were all kids. I saw a lot of boys younger than me die right in front of me. And every time they would say something to me, like that I was pretty, I'd realize that these were the same boys who would've been walking me to the front door of my parents' house if we were still in the States."

He was watching her. The memories in her eyes faded as she smiled at him. "Well, maybe not you."

He smiled back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

He shook his head and gestured for her to continue. "By all means."

"No, go on." She laughed quietly. "You were telling me about Devon's daughter."

Face's smile fell slowly, and he looked away. "Yeah," he said quietly. "His daughter."

When he didn't continue, Jessica prodded carefully. "Surely she must have known what happened to her father. You didn't have to tell her."

"She'd thought he was dead. The government had told her that years ago - that he was killed near Plieku. There was never any thought that he was alive."

"Why lie about it after the war was over?"

"It's all political. And POWs make for nasty headlines."

Jessica heard the cynicism in his voice, and frowned. "I don't understand."

"We made a big deal out of the fact that we weren't in Cambodia."

"Cambodia?" she asked, startled.

Face sighed. "In order to protect the guys on the ground – to protect the whole operation – we were never able to tell people back home where we were going. And when our guys went down, they were declared casualties – body not recoverable – in South Vietnam. But we knew he was still alive. I knew..."

She studied him, silently. He could see the questions in her eyes, but she didn't ask. She remained quiet, waiting patiently.

"It could've been any one of us," he continued quietly. "We all knew the risks. If we went down on that side of the border, it was over. The only people who'd even know were the men on our own teams. And we... we left him there."

She frowned. "Somehow, I don't think it's that simple."

"Simple?" He shook his head. "No, it wasn't simple. We had no idea where to start looking. No authority or orders to go look. So we left him there. We left him there knowing that for the rest of our lives... we'd be wondering if we'd done the right thing."

**TUESDAY, MARCH 25**

**1986**

It took Face a bit longer than expected to answer the door and when he did, he opened it only a crack. "Busy, Lieutenant?" Face stepped back, opening the door wider. Hannibal was almost surprised to find that he wasn't busy.

The suite was furnished with leather and dark-colored tapestries. It was impressive, but then, Face's temporary residences usually were. Hannibal eyed the open glass door to the balcony as he stepped inside and took careful stock of his quiet surroundings. The silence was almost unnerving.

"You here alone?"

Face shut the door again, and locked it. "Murdock went to spend the night with Kelly," he answered simply. He didn't look at Hannibal as he headed to the kitchen, separated from the living room by a countertop peninsula.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Hannibal nodded, and followed a step behind. "Sure."

He watched Face grab a glass from the cabinet, and refill the one from the counter. A moment later, he returned with two glasses, half-full with amber liquid. Hannibal smelled it, and hid his frown. Whiskey. Face had stopped drinking whiskey – most all liquor, in fact – when they'd come back from Vietnam. But the fact that he didn't flinch when he took a sip told Hannibal that either he hadn't lost his taste for it, or he was already drunk.

Face remained quiet for a long moment, then smiled as he gestured to the balcony. "Shall we?"

Stepping out into the warm night air, Face left the door behind him open and joined Hannibal against the railing. There didn't seem to be much to say. Hannibal reached for a cigar; Face offered a light without even turning his head. A few seconds passed in silence. Finally, Hannibal turned to glance at the younger man.

"You've been kind of quiet."

Face shrugged, but didn't speak.

Hannibal took a sip of the whiskey, then set his cigar between his teeth. "What's on your mind, kid?"

Face sighed deeply, and lowered his eyes, staring down into his glass. "I'll give you three guesses, Colonel," he answered softly.

Hannibal watched him carefully, out of the corner of his eye. "Are you angry?"

"Angry?" Face seemed genuinely surprised by the question. "Why would I be angry?"

"I am," Hannibal admitted.

Face looked at him questioningly.

"We say for over fifteen years that this can't be done. We don't do it and we try not to even think about it. Then some stranger comes and shoves money in our faces and off we go to Cambodia."

Face stared at him for a long moment, and his brow slowly furrowed. "You're doing this for the money?" he asked. Clearly, he didn't believe the words even as he spoke them.

"No." The answer was immediate and instinctive, but Hannibal had nothing to follow it with. After a long pause, he sighed. "I don't know why I'm doing this. I guess it took his daughter to come knocking on my door for me to accept the fact that I should've done it long ago. Even if it has no chance of succeeding. I need to know that I've tried."

"So how does that turn into anger?"

"Because I should've done it long ago."

Face sighed as he looked away, lowering his eyes. "We all make mistakes, Colonel," he said softly.

Hannibal took another drink and turned, leaning back on the railing. "Some bigger than others."

Face gave a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle. "I can't talk."

"You could."

"I'm not going to."

Face paused and looked up at him. As their eyes locked, Face realized that he was perfectly serious. Very slowly, and equally serious, Face shook his head.

"That's long over, Hannibal. As far as I'm concerned you did what you had to do. Just like we all did."

"Are you going to find that way if we should happen to find Sergeant Young's body? Or whatever remains of it?"

Face stared him down. "I don't know what I'm going to feel then," he admitted. "But I trust your judgment calls. The ones you make now, and the ones you made then. Point blank."

Their eyes remained locked for a long time before Hannibal finally looked away, satisfied with that answer. "So what are your thoughts on this mission besides the obvious?"

"The obvious?"

"We both know the chances of success on this one."

Face gave a slight half-shrug. "But we both think there's some chance, or we wouldn't be going."

"To be honest, I'll be satisfied if we can just get some information on where they held them and for how long."

Face raised a brow as he glanced over. "You don't think any of our men are still alive," he realized.

"Do you?"

The pointed question made Face pause. He considered it carefully for a long moment before nodding. "Yes. I do."

"I'd like to," Hannibal said quietly. "But I can't logically think of any reason why they'd keep them alive.

Certainly not for intelligence purposes. A man's value as a POW declines over time; you know that. And they didn't even have enough respect for the Geneva Convention to _declare_ their POWs."

"Well, technically, Cambodia never had any POWs. The Viet Cong in Cambodia did."

"And you think the Viet Cong would find them valuable enough to waste the food for fifteen years?"

"Possibly."

"To what end? What do they have to gain?"

"Bargaining chip for political purposes?" Face shrugged. "Hell, Hannibal I don't know. I don't pretend to understand the way _we _handled that war, much less the way the enemy did."

Hannibal was quiet for a moment. Finally, he sighed. "Well, if you believe there's a chance we could recover someone still alive, I guess it makes the question that much more pertinent."

"What question?"

"Your thoughts on this mission."

Face hesitated.

"It is your specialty, Lieutenant."

"Was," Face corrected. "That was a long time ago."

"For all of us," Hannibal agreed. "But you'll understand why I want your input on this one."

Face sighed, and thought quietly for a minute. "I somehow doubt they've still got small prison camps scattered all throughout the jungle. More likely, they centralized them long ago."

"Into their civilian prison system?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Face hesitated for a long moment, then sighed. "You realize that this is going to be a hell of a lot different now than a POW snatch fifteen years ago. The territory may or may not be familiar, but the rules have all changed. We have no idea what we're walking into. None of us speak the language. The trail has been cold since 68. And just because they're not going to shoot us on sight doesn't mean they're going to welcome us with open arms, either. Just how are you planning to do this, Colonel?"

Hannibal shook his head slowly. "I don't know yet." He glanced up and locked eyes with Face. But we'd better get a clearer picture of what we're dealing with before we go over there or we're going to be walking into a death trap."


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"I could sum up everything we knew about Cambodia today in five seconds or less," Face said, watching as Jessica rose to her feet, grabbed the towel he'd set on the foot of the bed, and took it back to the bathroom.

His eyes followed her, but he didn't get up. She waited for him to continue, but he didn't. Not until she'd hung the towel and walked back into his field of vision. The way he was watching her, it was as if he didn't want her out of his line of sight. He clearly felt threatened, though she wasn't sure how conscious he was of it. The only question she had was why. Was he afraid of her, or was it the fear of the unknown monster under the bed - irrational and yet very real?  
"Even what we knew about it back then was sort of sketchy," he finally continued as she returned and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Going over there now... We didn't speak the language, didn't even know what we were looking for, no idea where to look. We had no idea where to start, what to expect."

"Sounds like you had your work cut out for you."

"The worst thing about it was the thinking," he said quietly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The thought of what we were about to do just seemed surreal. Not to mention completely overwhelming. After Hannibal left, I laid there for hours, just staring at the ceiling. Next thing I know it's 3:30 in the morning and I'm just praying for this night to be over."

"What happened at 3:30?"

He paused for a long moment. "I realized I wasn't the only one awake."

**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 26**

**1986**

Murdock sat bolt upright, heart pounding, sweat running into his eyes. Terror, fear and adrenaline was screaming though his body, but he was paralyzed, unable to move. Pieces of information flashed in his head as he struggled to orient himself. Darkened room, soft bed, lace curtains, floral bedspread. Unfamiliar. Not his room. But not a threat. The scream on his lips died and he slumped forward a little. Kelly. He was in Kelly's room.

As if she knew he was thinking about her, the woman lying beside him rolled onto her side and then settled back into a deep sleep. He watched her for a moment before glancing at the clock. It was 3:30 is the morning. And he was done sleeping.

Tilting his head back against the headboard, he took several slow deep breaths, trying to get his heart rate under control and his breathing back to normal. The dream was fragmented in his memory, just bits and flashes of floating bodies, explosions, fire, screams... and Face, with that look in his eyes. As the adrenaline faded, worry crept in. That look Face had, damn it. That cold, detached look that didn't belong there. He didn't like seeing it. But he _had _seen it. Too recently, he'd seen it.

There was no hope of getting back to sleep. He needed to talk to Face. Sliding out from under the covers, he stood up. It was warm; he didn't need to get dressed. The boxers he was wearing were more than enough. He grabbed the contact list from his wallet, but made no sound as he slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Homer raised his head just long enough to take note, then laid it back down on his paws. Murdock hadn't disturbed anyone.

Flopping down on Kelly's sofa, he switched on the lamp. The phone was already in his hand, even before his eyes had adjusted to the light. He'd checked the number and dialed before he had even managed to think about what he would say.

"Hello?"

Face wasn't groggy in the least. He'd been awake. He answered with no emotion, no inflection to his voice. That tone was enough to make the hair on the back of Murdock's neck stand up. "Hey, Facey." He keep his voice low. Even though the door was closed, he didn't want to wake Kelly. "You couldn't sleep either?"

Face sighed audibly. "No."

"Want me to bring you some warm milk?"

The quiet snort of laughter was followed by the sound of the creaking mattress. "I've always hated warm milk."

"Drinking it warm is a little to much like drinking it straight from the source for my liking. But the big guy swears by it."

"I think that's the idea."

Murdock leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes. "The offer still stands, though. Or maybe a bottle of something you need ID to buy would be better?"

Face didn't answer.

"How mad do you think Hannibal would be if we showed up hung over tomorrow? Or, better yet, still drunk?"

The quiet clinking was a dead giveaway that Face was, in fact, pouring a drink. "I honestly don't think he'd be too surprised. Especially since he and I polished off half a bottle of JD while he was over here."

Murdock let out a little laugh. He should have figured Hannibal would have picked up on the way Face had reacted. "Only half a bottle? Sounds like you guys are slipping."

"We have _no _plan, Murdock. This whole thing is..."

Face trailed off with a sigh, and Murdock let the silence linger for a moment before picking up.

"Something you have to do? Even though it doesn't make any sense and it's gonna land us right smack in the middle of a foreign country, run by a government we went to war against - but not really - who probably wants all of us for war crimes if they had a chance?"

Face was quiet for a moment. Murdock heard him exhale, and knew he'd just taken a full shot of the whiskey - or whatever he was drinking, but it was probably whiskey.

"What do you think, Murdock? Are we wasting our time doing this? Or worse?"  
Murdock opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling but not really seeing it. "I think if there is a one in a billion chance we can find out anything about what happened to a team member, then it's not a waste of time."

"The most we'll find is his body. And it's a hell of a lot to put on the line."

"No more than you put on the line for me." A smile crept across his lips. "And you didn't even like me then."

"There was a good chance you were alive and we knew exactly where you were. Not the same."

Murdock paused, wondering if they'd had this conversation about coming to find him all those years ago. Of course, that was different. Hannibal had tried to get Young, and had gotten his whole team killed in the process. Now he was trying again, except this time his team was going willingly. There was nothing encouraging about that. And that wasn't even the biggest problem.

"Thing is, Facey, there's no good outcome. We don't want him to be dead, but being alive and a POW for fifteen years, that might be worse than death."

"I hope he's dead," Face said quietly. "I hope like hell he died instantly. Bullet to the head out in the jungle, and Hannibal just didn't find his body. I hope he never made it to the camp."

Murdock was quiet.

"But that doesn't change anything," Face finally sighed.

"All us going over there is going to do is it might give that woman a chance to mourn and move on."

"You're kidding yourself, Murdock."

"Devon Young was a member of this unit, and his daughter asked us to do this. How can we _not _try?"

"He was a member of Hannibal's unit. And Hannibal would never force you to do this. He would never force any of us."

"I know. But at this point, _not _going would open more wounds than anything we find over there. Or don't find."

Face was quiet. Finally, Murdock heard the bedsprings creak again. "Jesus, Murdock, what does it matter? What the hell is this about, anyways? Finding some bones? Getting some closure? There is _nothing _over there."

"So don't go."

Face didn't answer.

"You said it yourself, Hannibal won't force you. Damned if I will."

Another long pause. Then, finally, Face sighed. "Get some sleep, Murdock. We don't all need to be exhausted tomorrow."

Murdock smiled faintly, to himself. "In a few minutes I'm going to go back and curl up around the woman waiting in bed for me."

"Not a bad idea. Enjoy it."

"Just promise me something, Face."

"Hmm?"

"Just remember that this, now, isn't like it was back then. You got people who are counting on you to come back. If you're really for real gonna do this, you gotta promise me you'll remember that."

Face laughed quietly. But there was something dark and cold in that laugh. "Good night, flyboy."

Murdock halted. Years since Face had called him that. And the fact that Face hadn't promised wasn't lost to him as he heard the line click and go dead. With a sigh and a sad smile, Murdock hung up the phone carefully.

"Good night, Facey."

*X*X*X*

"What'd you find, kid?"

"A friend of mine is a professor of world history at UCLA," Face said, sitting down across from Hannibal and BA in the small coffee shop. "I gave him a call. Do you have any idea the kind of stuff that happened in Cambodia after we pulled out?"

"I wasn't particularly paying attention," Hannibal admitted. "Give it to me in sixty seconds or less."

Face gave another quick glance around the shop, out of habit. Call it paranoia, but even with his back to the wall, he didn't like the confinement of small, crowded places. He liked it even less in light of the thoughts that had been running through his head for the past 24 hours.

"Cambodia wanted the Mekong Delta back and Vietnam said, 'No.' From that point on, it was one long, drawn out conflict. Cambodia attacks Vietnam, Vietnam attacks Cambodia and eventually topples their government – which was hell bent on genocide and scare tactics, I might add. Then the Chinese got involved and headed to Hanoi until the American-trained Vietnamese said, 'Oh, hell no,' and China pulled back."

BA was frowning. Hannibal smiled. "Sounds like they've all been very busy."

"Bottom line, the government is still real unstable over there, Hannibal," Face said, his voice laced with concern. "Not to mention there's an unofficial war going on at the Thai border right now. The chances of records, evidence, _anything _surviving all of that?" He shook his head. "It's not even looking for a needle in a haystack – or a set of dog tags in a foreign country, as it were. He had no tags, and if his training was anything like ours, he probably never even gave his real name – at least not in any way it would be preserved."

"What's your point, Face?"

Face sighed. "You know we're not going to find a damn thing. We're just going to go back there, rip open old wounds, make new ones, and for what? So we can take a photograph of a mass grave full of bones and tell this girl, 'We think that's probably where your father is'?"

Hannibal didn't respond. Face stared at him for a moment before dropping his head forward and running a hand through his hair. He clenched his fist, holding it there for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Hannibal didn't seem offended. Or deterred. He sipped his coffee slowly as he glanced out the window, watching the people on the sidewalk carefully.

"You know, it occurs to me," Hannibal said quietly, "that information on prisons can most accurately be gained by the criminals that have been in them."

Face studied him carefully, skeptically. "Where are you going with this?"

"Think any of your old friends might've done some time in the Cambodian prison system?"

Face frowned. "Even if they had, the chances that they'll want to talk to me about it are pretty slim. That world is based on reputation, and mine is fifteen years old."

"Would you still know how to find them?"

Face considered it, and shifted uneasily. "Possibly. If they want to be found. But fifteen years is a long time. They're probably all dead by now. It wasn't exactly a friendly business."

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. Face could tell his thoughts had shifted. "How long will you need to get us some passports?"

"Passports?" Face was surprised by the request. "What for?"

"If we're going to be operating on the streets, out in the open, and we already raise suspicion because of the color of our skin, we need to at least make sure we have proof of our non-American residency and a legitimate reason for being there if we're asked."

Face hesitated, considering that. It made sense. "Where do you want them from?"

"Europe, I'd guess. France?"

"Russia," Murdock interjected. Face turned and glanced up as Murdock approached the table.

Hannibal smiled in greeting. "Morning, Captain. How was your night?"

"Great." Murdock smiled, turning the chair around to sit in it backwards. "Russia's got a trade agreement set up a year or so ago that put them on good terms. They're also on pretty good terms with the Vietnamese – since they're kinda occupying their country right now - but I don't think I look the part of a Vietnamese."

"You speak Russian," Hannibal pointed at him, "we speak French."

"I don't speak either," BA said firmly.

Face smiled. "Well, I'll write you up as being from France and just... don't speak."

"You _do _speak Khmer," Hannibal reminded him. "Which gives you an advantage over all of us."

"No," BA said firmly. "I _used _to understand a little bit of Khmer. And that was a long time ago."

"Still. That's better than nothing."

"Not much. I can't speak it, man. I don't remember. I don't wanna remember."

Face was quiet, sipping his coffee as he stared out the window. He'd get the passports. All it would take was a phone call. But a hell of a lot of good it would do them if they actually stirred up any trouble over there. The political atmosphere was so unstable, it would be a miracle if they managed to get in and out without ending up in prison themselves. He sighed as he closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. What the hell had he been thinking when he agreed to this?


	9. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"I got the passports, Hannibal looked over all the information I had on the country's history, and he and I spent most of the next few days trying to come up with some kind of plan. We had nothing. We finally decided that we were just going to have to play it by ear."

"Play it by ear?" Jessica repeated, stunned. "Are you kidding?"

"The whole thing was a suicide mission. It didn't add much to the stakes."

She closed her eyes and tried not to think of that, tried not to think about the fact that she knew how this story ended.

"We took a commercial flight over. It was easier, since we wanted to get the passports stamped. And BA had already agreed to go, so he didn't put up as much of a fight. We had no way of knowing just what we were going to be facing until we got over there. We were going to be flying blind."

He paused for a long moment, and shifted again, trying to find another position that wasn't painful, and finally settled, half lying on the pillows. "That was the most unnerving thing about it. Every major mission we did in Vietnam always had a lot of preparation beforehand. Drills, practice runs, flyovers. We didn't want any surprises. But there was no way to prepare for anything over there.

"The first week that we were there, it was all just intelligence gathering. And trying to keep a low profile. The regime that took over in '75 was about as bloodthirsty and paranoid as the Nazis. They were called the Khmer Rouge, and they were the followers of the Communist Party of Kampuchea. By the time they fell in '79, they'd killed one-fifth of the population of Cambodia."

"My God..."

He made no effort to look up at her. "The third day we were there, we went to this museum – the government that took over converted one of the prisons into a museum. They had photos... the things that had happened..." He shook his head slowly. "I still thought, up until then, that there might be some chance. But I took one look around that museum and I knew. No American would've survived that. And from that point on, it was just... empty."

**MONDAY, MARCH 31**

**1986**

The faces on the walls were haunting - photo after photo of murdered man, woman, and child. Angry, sad, confused, placid, terrified, wounded, crying... Many had tags around their necks - numbers that identified them and where they belonged. Face looked at each one; somehow it was easier to look at the photos than the artifacts still preserved in the dark, dingy rooms. The shackles that had held them and the utensils they'd used to eat their last meal...

"{You are looking for someone in particular?}"

The accent was one Face had never heard before, but the man's French was understandable nonetheless. Face turned and eyed the man, giving him a quick look up and down. He was a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, with thick glasses and an interested smile. No telling who he was or why he was striking up a conversation, but it wouldn't hurt to engage. That was why they were here, after all.

Face exchanged glances with Hannibal before nodding. "{I am. My name is Pierre LeRue.}" He held out a hand. "{And you are?}"

"{I am Bourey, the museum curator.}"

"_Enchante._"

How convenient.

Wary of the unfamiliar man, but willing to step out on a limb if it meant some measure of success, Face withdrew the photo from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was one hell of a long shot, but stranger things had happened.

"{I'm looking for information on this man. I don't know his name and I don't know for certain if he was here or perhaps in another prison. I've been hired by his family to confirm his death. Do you recognize him?}"

The man stared for a long moment at the photograph. The flash of something – recognition? fear? distrust? – in the man's eyes was gone too quickly to identify. To the untrained eye, he merely looked at the photo, then smiled politely as he looked back up. But Face's eye was trained. Surprised to get a reaction whatsoever, Face waited for the negative response to accompany the smile.

"{You will not find that man here.}"

Face studied him carefully. He'd seen something, he was sure of it. He wasn't even sure what it was – a flinch, a tightening in the man's shoulders, a hesitating breath. Instinct alerted him to his target's response. Something... though it could be nothing. The search for a white-skinned man amongst thousands of Cambodians was potentially enough of a shock to create whatever he'd seen.

He couldn't let it go without knowing for sure.

"{Do you have any idea where he might have been detained?}"

"{He is a Frenchman?}"

Face hesitated. Roll the dice, and he could be jeopardizing the mission and all of their lives. Walk away and they might never know if this was exactly what they had come looking for.

"{He was an American.}"

"{And you? You are American?}"

_Roll the dice, Face..._

He didn't dare a glance at Hannibal, but knew that he was just as ready as Face to get the hell out of here if this situation turned threatening.

_You might never know..._

"_Non_," Face answered. "{I am French, by birth. Though for the past twenty years, I've been living and working in –}" he hesitated just a beat, and cursed himself for it, "{Thanh pho Ho Chi Minh. I knew this man briefly when he passed through, a very long time ago. I was acquainted with his family and they contacted me because my colleague and I have done some investigative work in the past and there is a matter concerning this man's estate. They want confirmation that he's dead, that's all.}"

The man eyed him up and down. "{Thanh pho Ho Chi Minh is a very dangerous place for one who might be mistaken for an American.}"

Face flinched. And all his lines went right out the window.

"{Thank you for your time.}" Hannibal had him by the arm before he could speak. "{We'll be leaving now. We have many more places to look.}"

Hannibal pushed him the first few steps before he matched his pace. They were nearly to the door when the man's voice stopped them. "Oh, _messieurs_?"

Hannibal and Face both turned.

"{The Spring Bar is an excellent place for an evening drink, any night of the week. I highly recommend it.}"

Both men stared. Hannibal's confusion faded first, and he nodded a quick, "_Merci,_" before pushing Face out the door and down the hallway. Relieved to be out of the room, and out of the conversation that had somehow felt too much like an interrogation, Face couldn't walk much faster without attracting attention to himself.

"{What the hell happened in there, Face?}" Hannibal demanded as they stepped out into the hot sun. There was an edge to Hannibal's voice - almost a reprimand, but without anger. He started down the street quickly, checking both ways over his shoulders.

"_Je regrette_," Face answered. "{He caught me off guard.}"

"{You can't be caught off guard here. I _need _you on your game.}"

"{I know, I know.}" Face frowned deeply as he matched Hannibal's stride, quick and broad steps down the pavement.

"{Just don't let it happen again. These people are not exactly friendly.}" Even now, he was careful of his wording. It only took one person to overhear, and alert all the wrong channels.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"I don't know why I let him catch me off guard. I was just... off. Just felt wrong. And I knew I needed to be there. _All _there. But I just couldn't."

"Why not?"

His eyes slid shut, still shaking his head. "I don't know."

Jessica watched as he carefully lowered his abused body and lay down again, pulling the pillow up under his head. Staring off at some indiscriminate place on the far wall, he looked broken and alone. She moved with deliberate care, not wanting to disturb him, lying next to him. With great care she softy touched his unhurt arm, sliding her hand down until it was resting on top of his hand.

He winced as he shifted uncomfortably, trying to find another way to lie. "We didn't know what we were _doing_. You know how difficult it is to just... play things totally by ear? Poke around randomly until something reacts?"

She watched him quietly as he finally settled on his side, looking at her from a few feet away. There was a part of her that didn't want to hear this. She knew how dangerous his life was, but she didn't want to hear about it. It was like he was telling her about a movie or about someone else. It wasn't him. But the sight of his wounds was an ever-present reminder that it _was _him.

"And there's a risk with everything," Face continued quietly. "Tell him we're Americans and he could've shot us on the spot. Tell him we're not and he might not tell us what we want to know. It's the snap decisions. I can lie by the _book _if I know what I'm supposed to say. But I just... choked."

The way he was lying, curled in on himself with that pleading, hurt look in his eyes made her think of James. That fact alone made it all the more difficult for her to accept the bruises, burns and other abuse that had been heaped on his body. Her instincts screamed to move closer to him, hold him, let him know she was there, and he wasn't alone. He was her friend, her hurt friend who needed her to be here.

Swallowing her concern for him she turned and put her hand gently on his neck over the bruises, very gently stroking the tense muscles. She wanted to say it was okay, to offer reassurance. But that was meaningless. And it wasn't what he needed. He seemed to just need a safe place to talk.

"Face, you'd just learned details of a mass slaughter of innocent people."

He looked away.

"You're human, Face. How could you not be affected by that?"

"Still, it's mistakes like that..."

He didn't finish.

She touched his cheek lightly, and he drew his eyes back to her. She didn't speak, just let him draw strength and comfort from her gaze. Finally, he breathed slow, deep, gathering his thoughts.

"We'd sent Murdock out into the streets," he said. "His idea. He couldn't speak Khmer, but he speaks Vietnamese and the two cultures have really intermingled."

**MONDAY, MARCH 31**

**1986**

Murdock stumbled off the street babbling some half-coherent mix of Russian and Vietnamese. Clothes torn and eyes wild, he smelled as if he'd spent the past three days climbing in and out of dumpsters – and he had. He wasn't exactly sure what time it was; his internal clock was messed up from the jet lag and the sun was hidden by the thick clouds of the monsoon rains that were pouring down again. But he figured it had to be getting close to noon and if he was late, "worry" probably wouldn't describe the reactions of the team. Especially since there was no way to keep in contact with them except with the beacon transmitter sewn to the inside of his inner shirt. It wasn't waterproof, and Murdock had wrapped it in a latex condom before sewing it in. Closest to his body, it was on the layer least likely to be damaged if he should run into trouble in the dark alleys.

During the day, he'd never gone further than a one mile radius from the centrally-located hotel where Hannibal, Face, and BA were sleeping. At dusk, he returned to the alley across the street from it, tucked himself against the dumpster, and tried to sleep. At night, there was always someone in that room watching him. He never saw them, but he knew it. It gave him a sense of security, and even if the night sounds were not exactly conducive to sleep, he was at least able to shut his eyes.

The sleep deprivation was probably good for his image, anyways.

Soaked to the bone, dirty and disheveled, he trudged through the muddy sludge that lined the floor of the alley, keenly aware of his surroundings even though he seemed completely lost in his own world. But there was no one there - no audience to play for. Likely, the rest of the vagrant population had already found various places to take shelter for the evening. That made it not worth the effort of speaking out loud to the voices in his head.

At the end of the alley, he glanced around once more, then grabbed the edge of the dumpster and pulled himself up. From there, he grabbed the wall, and inched to the fire escape. It wasn't terribly difficult to pull himself up to the first platform, and even less so to get to the rooftop. BA was waiting at the door to the rooftop entrance, just inside the open door, out of the rain.

"What took you so long? You late! We was about to come lookin' for you!"

"Oh, I can't be that late." Murdock pulled off his baseball cap and shook the water off of it. Completely saturated, it released the water in a stream before he put it back on. "It's not dark outside yet."

"Dark! You almost an hour late, fool!"

Murdock frowned. His shoes squished with every step and he was leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him as they headed down to the top floor, then to the first room on the left. Hannibal turned as BA opened the door and Murdock trudged through. BA followed, and locked the door behind them.

"How you doin', Murdock?" Hannibal asked, only slightly concerned by the appearance of the dripping, mud-streaked man in front of him.

"Right as rain, Colonel." Murdock's shoulders sagged as he sighed. "Though I'm real tired and I could sure go for a hot shower and a warm meal."

"Face went to get food. And the shower's over there."

Hannibal gestured towards the bathroom. As BA passed Murdock, he made a face. "You need it!"

Murdock smiled, but he really was too tired to poke and prod at BA's insensitive side, even for the joy of finding the little soft spots.

Almost an hour later, curled up on a chair in the corner of the hotel room with a blanket and a bowl of soup, he was much cleaner, though he could barely keep his eyes open as he relayed the bits and pieces of what he'd learned, hoping that someone would stop him if he said anything particularly interesting. He was too brain-dead to sort through it himself.

"Apparently this government that came and went through here was trying to turn it into some kind of farming communism. Most of these people out on the street got that way when that happened. Lots of them had their families killed. It was genocide – anyone they thought was a conspirator."

"Yeah, we went to one of the former detention centers," Face interjected. "The Vietnamese turned it into a museum after they liberated it. A lot of the records were destroyed, but what remains only documents three Americans, and a couple of other foreigners. The rest were all Cambodians."

"That don't mean there weren't more Americans there," BA said. "This place didn't do too good a job keepin' records on our guys. None of 'em ever got reported to the Red Cross."

"Maybe we can track down some of the survivors and see if anyone remembers anything?" Murdock asked.

Face shook his head. "I don't think so. Twenty thousand or so people went in. Only twelve came out. And none of them are going to be too terribly easy to find."

Murdock frowned deeply. "Man, I don't like those odds."

"Maybe we could find some of the guards," BA suggested. "They gotta still be around."

"Maybe," Hannibal agreed, entering into the conversation for the first time since it had started. He was leaning against the window, looking down at the road four stories below. "But finding just one of them could take months. And there's no telling whether or not they would know anything. Or if Devon was even there."

"You got a better plan, Hannibal?"

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, chewing his unlit cigar. Finally, he turned to face them. "There is another lead. A man we met at the museum who seemed to think we were Americans, and that we were looking for an American. He said we wouldn't find him at Tuol Sleng."

Face leaned back on the wall, clasping his hands behind him, as he watched the reactions.

"You think he know something?" BA asked.

"He knows _something_," Hannibal nodded. "The question is, what?"

"It could just be a trap," Face said.

"What kind of a trap?" Murdock asked with a yawn. "What did he want?"

"He wanted us to go to a bar. Didn't say why, or when. Just that it was a good place to go in the evening."

Murdock yawned again. He couldn't stop. "Maybe he was just being friendly."

"No, I don't think so," Hannibal said quietly. He was quiet for a long moment before he looked up. "BA, did you get those radios finished?"

BA nodded, and turned towards the small dresser, opening the top drawer and withdrawing several small, button-shaped objects. "They only got a range of about a hundred yards, but they small. And they look like buttons, just like you said."

"Perfect." Hannibal took one of the transmitters and the thin wire that ran from it to a battery pack. "How clear are they?"

"Hear yourself," BA said, handing him a set of headphones attached to a receiver radio.

Hannibal took the headphones, and tested the mic. It would degenerate, the further away he got. But at this distance, the sound was crystal clear.

"Face, we're going to need some guns."

"That should be easy."

"Extra ammunition would be good, too. And make sure you get it by tomorrow night." Hannibal paused for a moment. "Then I think we're going to go test our curator friend's trap and see if it springs."


	10. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER NINE**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"We'd all gotten some more on the history of the place. We knew the lay of the land, and more about what we were up against. But we still didn't really have a lead on where to _look_. We were still just as blind and directionless as when we showed up there. Only now, we were getting sleep deprived. We had to do something."

"So you want to the bar knowing it was a trap?"

She was proud that her voice remained even, inquisitive rather than judgmental. Inside she was screaming. What the hell had he been thinking? He could've been killed! Even knowing how the story ended - the wounds on his body painted the picture very clearly – she couldn't help but feel the panic at hearing his retelling.

But at the same time that she hated to hear it, she knew why he'd done it. And she knew that he would do even more dangerous things. It was part of who – of what – he was. She bit her lip as she listened to him continue.

"We had nothing to go on, Jess."

She stared at him for a moment. The gentle tone, the forced smile... Here he was, curled in on himself like a beaten animal, and he was trying to reassure her. He had changed since Vietnam. Moments like this made her wonder just how much he had changed.

"And it's not like we aren't used to taking risks. The whole damn thing was a mission from hell as far as risk goes. We weren't even supposed to be there. All it would've taken was one person to hear us talking who knew French and it could've all blown up in our faces. And that was still a lot safer than talking in English. So yes, we knew going into it..."

He trailed off. It took a few moments before he suddenly seemed to come back to himself. He blinked a few times, curling up a little tighter. "We knew we couldn't eliminate the risk. But we weren't about to go there unarmed. So I had to figure out how in the hell to get my hands on weapons."

She blinked, stunned. "Weapons?"

"We came over on a commercial flight, remember?"

For a moment, she just stared at him. She knew he was Special Forces. She knew he was on the run and she knew the reputation of his team. But that was very different from hearing the man lying on her bed casually explain how he needed to get illegal guns in Cambodia. He always was armed; she was used to that. But not once did she ever think to ask where the weapons had come from.

"They shouldn't have been hard to find. But it was a little trickier when I couldn't speak the language."

She couldn't imagine how he got the weapons in the U.S., let alone Cambodia. She shook her head slightly and felt the slight smile come across her face, in spite of herself. It was just another day at the office for him. There was something about that, something basic about _him_,that impressed her beyond words – both what he could do and how nonchalant he was about the whole thing. So often, he looked and acted nothing like that soldier she'd known in Vietnam. But the heart of that soldier was still beating under those eight hundred dollar suits.

"Guns are easy to find. Especially in Southeast Asia. In fact, it's where I import most of ours from. China and Russia were shipping them everywhere for a long time. Hell, even before the war, we were sending search and destroy teams into Cambodia to intercept arms shipments. Hannibal was a part of that." He hesitated. "Not that you'll ever find any proof of those missions. Since they've only recently admitted to having us over on that side of the border at all."

For just a brief moment, she caught a tiny glimpse of the things he and the team must know – the secrets and the lies. The sheer magnitude of what they had been, what they had done, made her suddenly realize yet another reason why the Army had been after them for so long. It wasn't just the bank job, the bruised pride. They knew a lot of secrets, and it wasn't like they could get into any _more _trouble for spilling them. It was a damn good thing they were good men, or they could've made a lot of money selling information.

"So how did you get guns for the team in a country were you don't even speak the language?" She couldn't hide her curiosity.

He watched her quietly for a moment, then looked away again. "Murdock knew of a place. He'd heard some talk about it. A hole in the wall, dive bar. He thought it would be worth checking out."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 1**

**1986**

The bar Murdock had suggested did, in fact, look precisely like the place where Face would find someone interested in parting with some guns. Money wasn't a problem; he could buy them if he could find them. He didn't imagine they would cost all that much when the average worker probably made the equivalent of ten dollars a month.

He slipped into the seedy establishment and over to the bar, eyes on his surroundings although his head was down. But all of his careful observance didn't match the attention that was directly on him. Their eyes were like a blinding spotlight. He was a foreigner, and that was obvious. He was suddenly feeling the distinct _lack _of the pistol that was supposed to be in his belt.

He didn't say a word as he sat down at the bar. The bartender looked him up and down. Unsure yet of what guise would work most to his advantage, he merely held up one finger. The man hesitated, then turned away and filled a glass with warm, dark beer. Face nodded as he accepted it, and laid an American twenty dollar bill on the bar top, shoving it toward the bartender. Beneath the bill was a picture out of a gun magazine of an AK-47. Some things could be communicated without words.

The bartender's eyes widened slightly at the money. Then he saw the picture beneath it. He looked up, and caught Face's gaze. A slight nod and a raised brow were all Face needed to communicate the silent question. The bartender took the money and the photo without a word.

Conversations that had stalled suddenly when he'd walked into the room slowly began to resume. Hushed whispers in unknown languages. Damn it, it would be so much easier if he could just speak their language. He knew they were talking about him. Not surprising, since even if he hadn't been blond with blue eyes, he was in a rather expensive suit that certainly hadn't come from anywhere around here. He knew when the bartender moved to the other end of the bar to speak to one of the other patrons that they were talking about him, too. But that was exactly what he wanted.

Nothing like a good first impression.

It took less than five minutes before he was approached. "Guns. You like?"  
"You speak English," Face observed with a smile.

"I take you shoot guns." The man's objective was clear. "You shoot guns. Many guns."

Face eyed him carefully. Take him? That wasn't quite what he'd had in mind. "I buy guns," he corrected. "If you bring them to me."

"You American, yes?"

Maybe this was a little too easy. "Yes," he answered warily. He'd been disclosing that when he slipped American money to the bartender.

"All American like guns. You like. No problem."

Face nodded slowly, lowering his eyes to the drink in front of him, though his awareness of his surroundings had increased ten-fold. "I like guns," he answered. "But I like them to be brought to me."

"Good. I take you shoot guns. We go." He was on his feet, broad smile in place and gesturing to the door, before he'd even finished.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"It was the one time when being an American in Southeast Asia actually worked to my advantage. All Americans like guns." He chuckled briefly, almost as if he was amused by that. "I had money and he had guns for sale. Then there was just the problem of how, exactly to make this exchange."

Jessica sat up and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She cocked her head slightly as she stared at him. It was a new layer to him – one that she'd never seen before. It fascinated, awed, and worried her. He was wearing that small, amused grin, but his eyes looked distant, like he was watching his memory on a movie screen. If he could talk about this like it was a trip to the store, she wondered what he would consider a real problem, a real threat. Certainly nothing he would encounter in day to day life here in the States.

"What did you do?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It was the only way he knew to do business. He wanted me to go with him. In this god-awful piece of run down... I wouldn't even call it a car. It had been pieced together out of probably a half dozen different vehicles."

She stared at him, jaw dropped. But he wasn't looking at her. Instead, he was smiling.

"It wasn't the part about going off with this unknown guy, to some unknown place, in an unfriendly country that really made me think twice. It was the thought of getting into that thing."

"You actually got into the car with him?" Jessica was horrified. "Face, what were you thinking!"

He laughed. Actually laughed. Like he was amused by the memory.

"Yeah. I got in the car with him."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 1**

**1986**

Ordinarily, Face realized he would've been a fool to get into the car with an unfamiliar self-proclaimed gun runner in an unfriendly and largely unknown territory. It was asking for trouble. But he also realized that this was a very different world. The stash of guns in this country was probably massive, if those search and destroy missions all the way back in the sixties had been any indication. He couldn't imagine that the shipments had gotten any less frequent when they were allowed to move freely. Someone had to sell the guns – why not this guy? Still, he wasn't stupid.

As they stepped out of the bar and into the pouring rain, Face's foot caught the crack in the sidewalk and he stumbled, bumping into the man. It took two barely-noticeable seconds to frisk him. No wallet of any kind, but the small pistol tucked into the back of his pants, under his jacket, was definitely worth taking. As Face regained his footing, he apologized over and over. Though startled at first, the man smiled as he shook his head.

"No problem. We go."

Face kept the pistol tucked between his arm and torso as he slipped into the back seat of the man's badly beaten... whatever the hell kind of car this was. As he settled, he slipped the gun into the back of his pants, under his jacket. He couldn't check to see if it was loaded without attracting attention to himself. But he would like to think that a gunrunner would be able to afford ammunition.

He was genuinely surprised that the little car didn't get stuck in the mud roads they went slipping and sliding down for over an hour. He was even more surprised that the man could see, when the windshield wipers didn't seem to be working. The rain lightened as they turned onto a smaller, bumpier, and even slicker side road. The car swerved to skirt six-inch-deep potholes, and Face gripped the door with white knuckles.

The rain had made it difficult to maintain a sense of direction. With nothing to see but sheets of gray over rice paddies and rubber plantations, it was hard to distinguish landmarks. He also didn't have the sun, or moon, or stars, to help him navigate. If he _did _have to find his way back on his own, he was going to have to stay within range of this road. That filled him with a sense of foreboding.

It was almost another hour, and through several small villages that Face habitually tried to correlate to their dots on the map in his head, before they turned onto another road. It was a tangled web of twists and turns, guided by barbed wire fences on either side. The rain had nearly stopped – at least for the moment – when they came to a stop in front of a dirty white guard shack, set beside a bamboo pole, lever barricade.

Face eyed the guard carefully. Grey hair, half-starved with sunken eyes, wearing a dirty, once-white T-shirt and jungle camo pants left over from war. He had a holster, and a gun on his side. He approached the car with a lazy, meandering pace that seemed anything but threatening.

A few words in Khmer passed from the driver to the guard, but Face was regarded with indifference. Without a word, the guard sloshed his way back to the barricade and leaned down on the weighted side, raising the bamboo pole just high enough for the car to pass through. Looking over the back of the seat, Face watched him return to his post as they continued down the road.

The building at the end of the long journey – pieced together with corrugated steel and tin, cinderblocks, and bamboo – was not the least bit inviting. Face's eyes swept the perimeter instantly and instinctively. No guards, no towers, no platforms in the trees. A few badly mistreated pickups scattered around the muddy parking lot, but no people, no weapons. No security, or threat, besides the guard who'd let them pass without so much as a word to him. Hesitantly, Face opened the door and set his feet in two inches worth of mud. So much for his shoes.

Almost immediately, his smiling escort had a hand on his shoulder.

"You shoot guns now. No problem!"

The man just inside the door was holding an M-16. Face recognized the gun it immediately for the fact that he hadn't expected an American weapon to be the first thing he saw. He also recognized the T-shirt with the green-capped skull on it that said, "Mess with the best, die with the rest." Face stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at the toothless, scrutinizing man. The man's gaze didn't waver as he sized Face up, then pointed in the direction of a wall full of weapons. Face had already seen them – and the rest of the room – with a quick sweep when he'd stepped in. He was more interested in the man.

"You work with the Green Berets?" Face asked carefully, nodding to the shirt.

The man's eyes narrowed. "You shoot guns," he said darkly. "You no ask questions."

"Come," Face's escort directed him, gesturing toward the selection of guns hanging off of the bamboo wall.

Reluctantly, Face dragged his eyes away from the ex-soldier and scanned the collection of handguns, hunting and assault rifles, shotguns, and automatic machine guns. His eyes came to rest on a CAR-15, set on the floor in the corner, not hanging from the hooks, and his heart fluttered unexpectedly.

Ignoring the feeling for the moment, Face turned his attention to the AK-47 that his escort was showing him. "You shoot. Yes?"

Face hesitated a moment, then took the gun with practiced ease and followed the man outside to a sandbag-lined range. The fact that he had no qualms about turning his back to Face, who was holding a loaded assault rifle, lessened Face's fears a great deal. As they approached the ridge, the man pointed to a tree inside of the range with a dirty, wet sheet hanging from one of the branches.

"You shoot," he pointed with a smile.

Face stared at him for a moment, then glanced at the sheet. Thirty yards, straight shot, five-by-five foot target stretched by its four corners...

"It's okay," the man nodded. "You shoot. Good gun. You like!"

Face lowered his eyes for a moment, and cast a lingering glance back to the man inside, who was watching him through the door. Then, in one smooth movement, Face flipped the gun to full auto, braced, aimed, and fired in short, three-second bursts across the range. Thirty rounds later, he stopped, lowered the muzzle, and glanced at his escort.

The man was thoroughly delighted. "See? You like! What next?"

Face glanced across the range at the sheet. A straight line of bullets had cut into all four sides – a few inches from the edge. Had he kept firing, they would have intersected just a little above the center of the sheet in the shape of a cross.

"What else do you have?" Face asked calmly.


	11. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER TEN**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 1**

**1986**

Face's competence with every weapon he touched was proven in minutes. When it came time to talk price, he didn't haggle. The soldier was still watching him, and they were both acutely aware of each other. Four M-16s, several hundred rounds of ammo, a dozen hand grenades, four Colt .45s, and a few grenade launchers only cost him about two hundred dollars. He smiled as he paid the escort. It was cheaper than he could've gotten it anywhere else. Too bad he had no way to get this stuff home, or they could stock up.

His eyes went back to the CAR-15 in the corner as the escort took his guns to the car and loaded them into the trunk. Well aware of the soldier's eyes on him, he crossed to it and picked it up carefully. As the escort re-entered, Face held it up. "What about this one?"

"Oh." The man who had so far done nothing but smile now frowned. "That gun no work."

"Is it for sale?" Face didn't give a damn if it worked. It had a serial number on it, and no soldier in his right mind would leave a CAR-15 behind willingly.

The man seemed startled by the question. But after a lengthy pause, he shrugged. "I sell to you. But it no work."

"How much?"

Either the man recognized the value of the non-working gun, or he simply recognized that Face's interest in it made it worth more than anything else he'd bought thus far. Either way, Face didn't bargain. He paid the man what he asked.

"Do you have any more like this?" he asked the man. "Working or not?"

"No. No more."

"Where did you find this gun?"

The man shrugged. "Man sell to me; I sell to you."

"Let me put it this way." Face shouldered the gun, produced his wallet again, and pulled out several large bills – more than he had paid for all of his purchases together. "I would _really_ like to know where you got this gun."

The man's eyes widened slightly, and he shot an uncertain glance at the soldier. Face turned his head, and locked eyes with the man. For a long moment, the tense silence lingered. Then the man finally spoke, low and quiet.

"You Green Beret."

It wasn't a question.

"Lieutenant Templeton Peck, US Army."

The Cambodian soldier looked him up and down, scrutinizing carefully. Face didn't flinch. "Why you here?"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine," Face answered. "He went missing, just this side of the border, near Duc Co, eighteen years ago."

The soldier shook his head. "No American here," he said firmly.

"Well, there must be some." Face nodded to the man's shirt. "Otherwise you wouldn't be wearing that."

The soldier glared at him. "American like guns. They come, they shoot, they buy."

_Veni, vidi, vici..._ Face smiled.

"Well, I'm here to buy. But I'd pay more for the information than for the guns."

The soldier glanced at the money, then back up at Face. He hesitated for a long moment before he finally replied, full of wary caution.

"What you ask?"

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"The guy with the guns was less of a risk than the guy at the museum," Face said. "There was no telling what the guy at the museum wanted. This guy wanted money, and he felt some sort of loyalty – on some level – to the Americans. Probably along the same lines of what I still feel for the Yards we dropped with. And, bottom line, he had a CAR-15."

She shook her head slightly. "What's so special about it?"

"Only guys in Special Ops had them. They were hard to get a hold of, and nobody would've left one behind voluntarily. Even if it wasn't functional. You got it fixed. You didn't leave it in the field. Wherever he'd found it, something had happened there."

She felt that same sense of amazement come over her again. These guys dropped themselves into the middle of a hostile country, unarmed and unable to speak the language, with no back up and zero information. Yet, despite that, they had managed to get weapons and a lead on something that no one here would even admit happened. It was awe-inspiring.

"Of course, it would still only put us a half-step in _any _direction. Whatever happened, it had happened at least fifteen years ago now, and who knew what team that gun actually belonged to. Not to mention it's a little hard to look up a serial number on a CAR-15 in Cambodia. But it was a start."

"So how did you get him to tell you where he got the gun?"

He shrugged, and pushed himself up, sitting on the bed and crossing his legs in front of him. He looked down at his hands as he flexed his fingers a few times, as if testing for feeling and dexterity. "Money," he answered simply. "That was the easy part."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 1**

**1986**

Hannibal met Face in the lobby, and walked with him back outside. From the trunk of the mud-covered black car, Face pulled several canvas bags and handed two of them to Hannibal. Apparently, he had been rather successful in procuring weapons.

"I wait," the driver of the car said as he smiled at Face.

Face nodded, smiled, and gestured for Hannibal to lead the way back into the hotel. Through the lobby and up the steps – neither of them trusted the rickety elevator – they climbed back to the fourth floor.

"{You were gone quite a while,}" Hannibal said quietly. "{I was beginning to worry.}"

"{Well, it wasn't like I could just walk into the corner store and put in an order, Hannibal. Besides, you're going to like what I found.}"

Hannibal opened the door, and Face followed him inside, closing it behind him. Murdock was dead to the world, facedown on the bed and snoring softly. Face cast him a lingering glance as he set the bags down and knelt beside them.

"I don't know how you do it, man," BA said in disbelief as he began unloading weapons onto the bed Murdock was not asleep in.

"M-16s with two M-203 grenade launcher attachments, .45s, plenty of extra ammo, hand grenades, and," Face paused as he withdrew the most interesting piece of equipment, "a CAR-15 – non-functional."

Hannibal stared at it for a moment, then held out a hand for it. Face gave it to him, and watched as he checked for the serial number. It was still intact.

"The guy who's selling this stuff?" Face continued quietly. "His name is Nhean. He was at Duc Lap for nine months, from 69 to 70, until he was wounded. He speaks English. There's another guy working with him that does, too - the one who drove me out there, and back. But he was never a soldier."

"Where'd he get the gun?"

"He says he found it. And he's willing to show us where."

"What kind of operation is he running? Big?"

Face shook his head. "I don't think so. He's careful, and he's smart. I didn't even realize he was the one in charge until I got him talking. I thought he was just a guard. He sends the other guy to scout for clients. Foreigners, rebels... apparently there's still a significant underground resistance movement here." He smiled. "Not everyone hates the Americans."

"Just because they don't hate us doesn't mean they won't turn on us," Hannibal said dryly, "if it comes to that."

"If you want my gut, this guy's legit, Hannibal," Face said with complete confidence. "And frankly, before we go walking into what very well may be a trap with the guy from the museum, I'd like to see what he'll give us. If nothing else, we'll have a control to weigh the museum guy's story against, if he actually knows anything."

Hannibal considered it for a moment, quietly.

"The driver is waiting in the car," Face said. "His name is Sovann. And I really think we need to see what he's got to offer."

Finally, Hannibal nodded. "Alright."

He turned and handed the weapon to BA. "See if you can get that working. We'll make contact within three hours. If you don't hear from us, you know something went wrong."

"It's a two hour drive," Face said. "And I don't know that he has a phone out there."

Hannibal was already reaching for one of the large pistols, eyeing Face. "You went for a two hour drive with an unknown man and didn't even let us know you were leaving?"

"I couldn't," Face said. "I didn't have time. And besides, I was careful."

Hannibal shook his head quietly, but didn't answer. Instead, he turned to BA. "We'll be back before dark."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"I think Hannibal was a little less than thrilled with the whole thing. But he couldn't turn his back on that gun. And if we wanted him to play, we were dealing on his terms."  
Face was fidgeting. It was unlike him. But there was simply no way that he could sit or lay that didn't put pressure on some injury somewhere on his body. Seeing him in pain and not being able to help, not being able to offer anything tangible to alleviate his suffering went against every nurturing instinct she had. Biting the offer that was on the tip of her tongue, Jess sighed to herself. She'd already offered the painkillers. He didn't want them.

"Sounds to me like Hannibal was right to be worried about it. The government's attitude can't possibly be too friendly to American soldiers. It's a hell of a risk."

"Only if he was in alliance with that government. These guys..."

He trailed off. Lost in his thoughts, he never finished. She watched him recede into the lingering silence. It was unnerving. Finally, she put a hand on his knee, and he jerked back to attention.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay."

She took a breath. "Why were you so sure about this guy? Why was he so willing to help you?"

"Nhean was stationed at Duc Lap with the Americans there. When we pulled out, he came back to Cambodia to be with his family, but they were all killed during the governmental terrorism that followed the war. He escaped, into the jungle, and lived there for several years. He collected weapons, started trading them, selling them, set up a business. It's been lucrative over the years."

She felt like she was watching a news report. He was cut off from his emotions – all of them. She was right there in the room with him, but somehow he still seemed alone. That caring, nurturing part of her wanted to hold him, wrap around him, shield him. But she wasn't sure how.

"The Americans were the only ones who'd ever looked out for him in the past. The Cambodian soldiers who fought on our side were loyal as hell - more so than the South Vietnamese soldiers, by far. Now the Americans were their livelihood."

"That made him trustworthy?"

Face glanced at her. "He was wearing an American shirt, Jess. He could've easily been shot for that. The guy was a rebel. He was on our side."

It was strange to think of there still being an "our side" so long after the war was over. But then again, maybe it wasn't really over for them. The French had left, the Americans had left, but the Chinese came and fought, then the Vietnamese came and fought. Then their own leaders slaughtered them. And in all of the death and the fighting, what had any of them gained?

Jess shook the thoughts off. She had no way to know and no way to understand all the circumstances of those conflict and now wasn't the time to try. She gave Face a tight smile. They had risked their lives on a bond - a trust - that she didn't understand either. But if Face and Hannibal both respected it, there had to be a reason.

"Did he take you there?" she asked quietly.

Face's eyes faded out of focus. For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then, finally, he nodded. "Sovann was just the courier. He took us to Nhean. It was Nhean who would take us to where they found the gun."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 1**

**1986**

Sovann was clearly familiar with this drive and how to navigate the less-than-reassuring car around the potholes and mud pits. It was a two hour drive. By the time they finally stopped, at a small white guard shack with a simple lever gate, Hannibal was getting a bit anxious. If Face trusted the guy; Hannibal trusted Face. But at the same time, he was acutely aware of the fact that nobody would ever find their bodies – not in a million years – if something were to go wrong out here.

Risk they had to take.

The man at the door to the cinderblock hut was holding an M-16. Hannibal eyed it warily – if only out of habit – as he extended a hand. "Colonel Hannibal Smith, US Army."

The man studied him for a long moment, then released his hold on the weapon, pushing it back on the strap that hung from his shoulder. Slowly, he took the hand Hannibal offered, and shook it. "You are Hannibal Smith?"

He nodded. "That's me."

The man turned, and eyed Face. "You did not tell me that your friend was Hannibal Smith."

Hannibal withdrew his hand, wary of the recognition. Face raised a brow, seemingly unconcerned. "Is that a problem?" he asked casually.

Hannibal watched him, and watched the gun so easily in his grasp. But after a long pause, the man turned back, and shook his head. "No problem." Without another word, he pushed past them, out the open door. "You come."

Hannibal and Face exchanged long glances, then Face led the way as they followed a few steps behind the man.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER E****LEVEN**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"Nhean knew Hannibal by name."

Jessica stared. "How? Did Hannibal know him?"

"Didn't seem to. Though I'm not sure he would've said anything if he did."

He was quiet for a long moment, then stood, sliding off the bed. She watched as he walked to the dresser and grabbed her purse, bringing it back to her and dropping it in her lap.

"I'm hoping you've got a cigarette in there."

Reaching in the purse in her lap, she fumbled around. "I just opened the pack. Would you like one?"

"Thanks." He took the pack as she held it out to him and reached into his own pocket for his lighter. The first one he lit, he passed to her. Then he grabbed another one and dropped the pack on the bed as he sat down carefully.

"I didn't think about it when we were setting it up. Even driving out there, checking weapons, doing all those things that were just following the script..."

He paused, and took a long, slow drag from his cigarette. He was miles away again. She could see it in his eyes.

"But I never thought – never in a million _years _did I think – that I would ever be walking through that god forsaken jungle again."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 1**

**1986**

Face hated this place. Walking through these trees, down these trails, with only the pistol he had tucked under his shirt... this was the stuff his worst nightmares were made of. He knew – with his mind – that there was no one in those trees. No AK-47s pointed in his direction. No camouflaged enemy. Bu he could still feel the eyes on him. And it made his skin crawl.

"What, _exactly_, is the political situation here?" Hannibal asked quietly. He was on alert too, Face knew, but he was doing a much better job of appearing calm. "What kind of danger are we looking at if they do discover that we're Americans?"

Nhean shrugged. "You not welcome. No one want you here. But not how it was before."

Somehow, that did surprisingly little to convince Face that the situation was even relatively safe. It was still probably better to maintain anonymity as long as they were able. There was no telling what men may hold personal grudges, and there were a hell of a lot of Vietnamese in Phnom Penh.

"This it."

Face and Hannibal stopped, a half step behind Nhean, and looked around the small clearing. It was overgrown with vines, but the remnant of a rotted, thatch shelter remained. And, buried under the vines, a small, intact bamboo cage. Face's heart stopped.

"This wasn't an ambush site," Hannibal said softly. "It was a camp."

"Temporary one, yeah." Face was impressed that his voice worked at all. Even more so that he was able to speak evenly.

For a long moment, they were both frozen in place. Hannibal was the first to move, slowly, towards the overgrown cage. Without thought, he reached back for his pistol – as if he needed it, just for the sake of reassurance, in his hand. Face watched him carefully, but his feet were still planted. He could barely breathe, much less move.

How many of these cages had he seen? How many people died here, unknown, forgotten by all but a few soldiers who sang there name when another one was lost? There were ghosts here, whispering - the voices of the dead.

Hannibal was careful to watch what he was grabbing as he pulled the vines away from the cage, unburying it. It was small - only about three feet high and big enough for three or maybe four men to huddle. There was no getting it completely free without a machete. Hannibal didn't try. He got it just clear enough to crouch down next to it, holding the bars as he stared into the dark shadows inside.

The only place that Face wanted to see less than the inside of that cage was the inside of the crumbling hut. Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn there. Was that where the commander had slept? Or where men were tortured? Was it both?

"This is where they spent their time." Hannibal was shining a flashlight into the cage. Face was glad he couldn't see whatever it was Hannibal saw. "If they left any message at all, it's in here."

That meant no bodies. That meant they had to search.

Face moved to the tiny door of the cage, not allowing himself to think. The words he used and commanded so well had left him. He didn't need them. Not really. As he kicked the door of the cage, hard enough to shake the whole structure, snakes, spiders and other small creatures slithered, crawled and skittered away. Two more kicks to clear them out, and he withdrew his knife to cut the door open, then ducked into the cage, following the beam from Hannibal's flashlight to the far left corner of the cage.

Time seemed to slow down as Face crouched low into that corner. He was watching someone else's hand push at the overgrown vegetation with barrel of his gun. More critters ran. He didn't flinch. The beam of light was steady as more of the dark, blood stained floor was exposed.

_Don't think about whose blood that is._

He had no idea how much time it took before he realized there was a pattern in that blood, not just random splatters and pools. He was frozen in place, staring, not able to comprehend what his eyes were seeing.

_ Holy Mary, Mother of God..._  
"Is the floor loose, anywhere?" Hannibal's voice was startling, but calm. "They would've buried anything they had, to keep it out of sight."

Face ignored him, eyes on those blood marks as he replaced his pistol and reached for his knife again. It took him several minutes to clear them away, to see the full picture. Some part of his mind registered how his hand trembled slightly as he reached down and with the utmost reverence, traced his fingers of the small, blood stained scratches forever etched into the floor.

"Greene... Kanowski... Hugh..."

The jungle somehow seemed to have grown very quiet, and the soft whisper echoed in the stillness. Lyrics to a song they both knew well - a song that every SOG soldier knew. The names of the dead.

_Hey Blue, you're a good dog you..._

Hannibal shut his eyes as he bowed his head in reverent silence. Face's hand passed over the names on last time, almost a caress. The words to the prayers the Nuns had taught him so long ago floating through his mind, offering a both a distant comfort and a tether to the men he had never meet, but knew all the same. He dropped his head into his hand, closing his eyes to the sight beneath him, but knowing he would never forget the image that was forever burned into his mind.

But in the complete silence and stillness, a strange and completely unexpected feeling was slowly wrapping its grip around Face. The feeling was so intense, so strong, it seemed to burn in him and through him. Even though he could think of no reason to justify it, he knew no way to contain it. Hope. He was staring at proof that American POWs had been kept alive in Cambodia. They were probably long dead, but they hadn't been summarily executed upon capture. He was staring at hope.

"Photograph it, Face." Hannibal paused for a long moment, his voice still full of reverence. "They left it there so that someone would know."

"We know," he said quietly.

Folding the knife away, he reached in his pocket and exchanged it for the camera he'd brought without even thinking about it. It was habit - part of what he always packed. Or, at least, what he _used _to always pack.

He took several photos of the names, then bowed his head and said one more quick prayer before he stepped out of that cage. There were no thoughts and no emotions as he quickly photographed the rest of the camp, out of habit. They needed to finish here, needed to find whatever else there was to find and move on. There would be more to find in this country. There was hope now.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

It seemed wrong, watching Face inhale on the cigarette in his mouth. She had seen him smoke before. He was a smoker when she'd met him, and even now he would occasionally bum a cigarette off of her when he didn't have a cigar available. But she had never seen him drag on that cigarette like his life depended on it since he'd been in fatigues and dog tags. That look belonged to the wary soldier, not the LA conman.

He stopped pacing, and sat down on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees. She couldn't stop herself; she moved in behind him and loosely wrapped her arms around his shoulders, noting the flinch as she touched him.

"I'm sorry, Face."

He didn't acknowledge her. He was staring at the floor. "It was hard to tell, by what they left behind, how many VC there might've been. Or how long they were there. Those three names... I can tell you right now they disappeared around September or October, 1969."

"How do you know?"

"The names were recited in order," he said quietly. "The names of the dead. Where they fall in the song, it was before November, and two names after the team that was killed in June."

She stared at him, stunned.

"Any human remains were gone. Buried... animals... who knows. The only other thing we found was a lighter, with an American's name engraved on it."

"Did you recognize the name?" She knew the Special Forces soldiers were tight. Could it have been someone Face knew?

He was quiet for a moment, then took another deep inhale. "No."

Somehow, she was relieved to hear that.

"Knowing what had happened there... It's the closest that..."

As he trailed off, lost, she could feel his breathing pick up just slightly. Letting go with one arm, she reached for the ashtray on her nightstand and stubbed out her cigarette. Then she held him again, careful of his injuries, as she rested her chin on his shoulder.

He put a hand up, over his face, as he shut his eyes and took in a shaky breath. "I wanted... so badly... I wanted to go after him, Jess," he whispered. "For months after he was gone, it's all I thought about. And I didn't even know where he went down. Hannibal does, but I never really did. I knew where he was stationed before but... Where he went missing, it probably wasn't anywhere even remotely _near_ where we were. But it still felt like..."

He lowered his hand, and realized the ashes were about to fall on the floor. He pulled away from her and leaned over to the ashtray, flicking them before they could fall. He grabbed it before he sat back again, and set it on the bed beside him. His eyes returned to that same spot on the carpet as he took another long drag on the cigarette.

"You know, people have funerals... It's never about the person who died. It's about everybody who's left behind. I've heard that, over and over again. But it's never _really_ made sense to me until I stood there. Because us standing there... it's probably the closest thing that those men ever had to a memorial. And I swear to God, it's the closest I've ever been to mourning."

He was still and quiet for a long moment. She closed her eyes. She had nothing to say in the solemn silence.

"I've had men die in my arms, Jess, and I've never felt like that."

The pain in his voice was so evident, she could almost feel it radiating from him like displaced energy. She held him a little tighter, wishing his injuries didn't prevent her from just wrapping him in a full embrace.

"It's alright, Face. It's okay to mourn."

It was like walking barefoot in a room with broken glass. If she wasn't careful, someone was going to bleed.

He turned his head, and studied her for a moment, then forced a tight smile. Finally, he pulled away, rising to his feet. He took another drag on his cigarette, and took the ashtray with him as he walked to the window, set the tray on the ledge, pulled the blinds, and stared outside.

"It was a dead end as far as our mission objective, but it... kindled something inside of me. Inside of both of us, I think. Just finding that..." He took in a deep, slow breath, then let it out evenly. "It was proof that there could actually be something to find. But we only had one more lead. And we knew it was dangerous as hell."


	13. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2**

**1986**

The "restaurant" was not a restaurant at all. Nor was it a bar, in the proper sense of the word. It was a strip club. At least, it was supposed to be. Face and Hannibal exchanged glances as they stepped through the door and were immediately greeted by the smell of marijuana and cigarettes, and the flicker of dim lights over a few tables full of male patrons. The girl on the stage, in platform heels and a moderately-revealing piece of black lingerie, received a brief glance as they both scanned the room. But they were both far more interested in the potential threat than the entertainment, and she wasn't all that eye-catching anyways.

It was too dark. No windows, only two escape routes. They drifted toward the corner table nearest the back door and put their backs to the wall, scanning the crowd. Gestures and charades communicated to the non-French-speaking waitress that they simply wanted a beer, and she smiled at them as she headed for the bar.

"{You see him?}" Face kept his voice down, and spoke in French; it was just safer if he didn't let himself think in English when he was out here.

"_Non_." Hannibal reached into his pocket for a cigar. By all accounts, he seemed perfectly comfortable and relaxed. But Face knew he was no less alert and aware. "{But he didn't exactly give us a time.}"

"{You think he already came and went?}"

"{I don't know. I'm not even sure what we're here for.}"

The two way transmitter buzzed slightly in Face's ear before he heard BA speak. "What's the layout in there, Hannibal?"

Hannibal spent a few minutes describing the room in detail, in hushed English. Every word was measured, and weighed for its importance. Hannibal was the perfect picture of efficiency when he was under stress. And without any kind of plan, without any idea what they were dealing with whatsoever, he was clearly stressed.

"We all clear out here," BA assured them. "Nobody in any of the cars, nobody around."

"Just keep an eye out. We'll let you know if he walks in."

The waitress brought the drinks back. Face watched the girl on the stage with more amusement than interest. She seemed to have not only watched, but taken seriously an inordinate number of bad seventies Swedish porn flicks. She writhed on the pole, making good use of the feather boa wrapped around her, but it was not what Face would've called enticing. Still, her all-male audience seemed to appreciate it.

Face shut his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he felt his thoughts begin to blur. The smell in the room was starting to get to him. "{I'm getting a contact high from sitting here,}" he mumbled under his breath.

"{I know what you mean.}"

"{How long before we call it quits?}"

Hannibal paused for a long moment. "{Until he shows up, or they close the bar. Whichever comes first.}"

*X*X*X*

"Ya know, I think next time Face scams us a truck, it needs to be one that's got air conditioning."

BA glanced over at Murdock, who was slouched against the door of the truck's cab, staring out the windshield with bored disinterest.

"You just oughtta be glad Face got us a truck at all."

Murdock sighed. "I hate stakeouts. Too much waiting. Too much quiet."

BA grunted. "Not enough quietif you ask me."

"Aw, come on, big guy. Sittin' here and listening to the sounds? Doesn't that just give you the creeps?"

"Everything about being here gives me the creeps." That was the honest to God truth. BA was uncomfortable in his own skin, hands twisting around the steering wheel as he tried _not _to listen to the sounds around them. "I don't like it, at all."

"Yeah, you and me both." Murdock slouched down a little further. "But sittin' here quiet and thinkin' about it is worse."

Sitting in the quiet and _talking _about it was worse still.

Suddenly, Murdock's tone changed - smiling and more casual. "Hey, you know I met this guy the other night who was with ARVN? He was half crazy, so he didn't mind tellin' me."

BA raised a brow as he glanced over at Murdock in the passenger seat. "Half crazy? You two probably got along just fine then."

Murdock was still smiling. "Yeah. Was great to see a... well, I wouldn't call him a _friendly _face. But I actually got to talk to him some. Even if he couldn't really tell me much..."

As he trailed off, his smile fell. He'd exhausted yet another topic. BA waited for him to find another one. He actually didn't hearing the fool jabber away, as long as he wasn't talking about real stuff. The kind of stuff BA didn't want to think about, sitting in the dark in the middle of Cambodia. Murdock's rambling made the wait in this god-forsaken place a little more bearable. But there was no way in hell he was going to admit that.

Looking out over the parking lot, Murdock sighed. "Think this guy's gonna show?"

"Dunno. Maybe." He cast a sideways glance at Murdock. "Do you think he's gonna show up?"

"Dunno. Maybe." He paused. "I hope so. Even a shot in the dark is still a shot. Shot in the dark that he's gonna turn out to be a friendly type, I mean."

Murdock's eyes were scanning, but nothing stirred. BA watched him for a moment, then returned his gaze to the bar. "We'll be ready for him if he ain't the friendly type, and Hannibal and Face, well..."

He exchanged brief glances with Murdock.

"Well, they Hannibal and Face."

"Yeah..."

Murdock sighed again, audibly. The air was hot and sticky, and so thick it was almost hard to breathe. When he spoke again, it was so quiet, BA could barely hear him.

"You know they found names."

Names? It didn't take more than a second or two for BA to put the pieces together - figure out what Murdock meant. Once he did, he drew in a slow breath. The warm air hardly appeased his lungs at all. He kept his voice calm, even, trying not to let any of his emotions peek into view.

"How do you know that?" It came out slightly harsher than BA had meant for it to.

"Face told me." He dropped his head, and looked away. "I asked. If they found anything, I mean."

"Oh."

It was a simple response, but what else was he supposed to say? And as the silence settled, he realized he didn't have a clue what to say next. He wasn't even sure how much he _should _bring up with Murdock.

He shifted uncomfortably, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Dealing with emotions wasn't BA's deal. Especially not with the crazy pilot. He wanted to change the subject, but, at the same time, he needed to know more.

"They didn't find... um... anything 'bout our guy though?"

"No." Murdock hesitated, then turned and gave BA a tight smile. "But the way I figure it, the trip wasn't all wasted now. They got pictures. Somebody's family will know."

BA felt a little tension his shoulders ease. Murdock was right. "Yeah, man, it will help someone out. They did good."

Murdock was quiet for a minute more. When he spoke again, it was quiet and reflective. "What do you think is the best case scenario here? I mean... eighteen years... It was hard enough surviving six months."

"Best case scenario just be us bringing back bones."

"Bones. Right." Murdock sighed. "And there probably won't even be a way to know for sure those bones are human, much less American. I mean, maybe an expert would know, but it's not like we've got one of those in our back pocket. And even then..."

BA stared at the bar as Murdock trailed off. But his gaze was unfocused, distant. He didn't want to go back empty handed, but the chances of them finding anything identifiable were slim, and he knew it.

"I think I'd call it a success if we bring back anything we _knew _belonged to any US soldier," Murdock continued after a pause. "And not just Devon Young's and not just bones. Those names... that's big, right?"

BA turned his gaze to Murdock, forcing a smile he knew was a little too strained. "Yeah. I think you right."

"I mean, even if we found him, how we gonna know it's him anyways? Unless they buried him with his dog tags on..." His voice faded again, and he shook his head to clear it as he looked away. "I dunno. I don't even know why I said we should do this. Bein' here in this place..." Murdock shivered noticeably. "Man, I never wanted to come back here."

"Hey." BA barked the word, waiting for Murdock to look up again. It took a minute, but when he did, BA licked his lips, gripping the wheel in front of him hard. "I ain't good at talking 'bout any of... well... about that. This stuff. But if..." He trailed off with a frustrated sigh, before dropping his gaze to his lap. Saying he wasn't good at this was a the understatement of the year. "I just mean if you need to talk... I won't tell you ta shut up. And, well... we're gonna find _something_ and we're gonna take it home and then we don't ever have ta come back, okay?"

He glanced up again to see Murdock's reaction. Murdock stared back at him for a few seconds, surprised. Then he smiled - a real, comfortable smile. "I know, big guy. And... thanks."

Murdock's eyes shot up, away from BA as a car pulled into the muddy parking lot. BA turned immediately to follow his gaze, watching the headlights. It wasn't an old car, but it wasn't new - dark in color and quiet. BA checked his watch as a Cambodian man in comfortable, casual clothes stepped out. Hands in his pockets, the guy wandered casually toward the front of the bar.

"Think that's him?" Murdock asked, his voice suddenly serious.

BA turned up the radio to better hear Face and Hannibal inside. "Someone coming in, Hannibal. He your guy?"

*X*X*X*

Face looked up as the door opened and the short, familiar man stepped through the door. "{That's him,}" Face said quietly.

Hannibal saw him, too. "Confirmed, BA," he said quietly, into the receiver sewn on his shirt. "The man who just walked in is our guy."

"Copy that, Colonel." Murdock's voice. "He came alone. I'll go check out his car and let you know. Over an' out."

The man was overtly looking for them. At least, he was looking for someone. When he finally saw them – feigning ignorance of his arrival and tucked into the back corner – he immediately headed in their direction. Face looked up, and appeared to be startled when he saw him standing so close. But the man's eyes were locked dead on Hannibal, and there was a strange smile on his face. Not joyous, not scheming... relieved? Why was this man so hard to read?

"Colonel Hannibal Smith," he said softly, stepping close before extending a hand. "I was not sure you would come."

Hannibal and Face both blinked in frank shock, both at the English and the use of Hannibal's name. After a lingering pause, Hannibal shook his hand warily. "Have we met?"

"At the museum," the curator said with a smile. "I am Pich. And I am glad you came to speak with me."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"He spoke perfect English and knew Hannibal by name. That should've been our first clue."

Standing with his back to her, Face was describing the scene as if he was a reporter, a disinterested third party. He somehow seemed to only be half alive, like a part of him had closed up and would stay shuttered until the storm had passed.

"How did he know Hannibal's name?"

He half-laughed at that, took one last drag on his cigarette, and put it out. "Yeah, that was what we were sitting there wondering."

"Why didn't you get the hell out of there?" She couldn't hold back that question. It was a hostile country, and they'd just been made. They should've run. Why hadn't they just run?

"We knew it was probably some kind of trap when we _went _there," Face reminded her. "We had Murdock checking his car, BA ready to get us the hell out. Pistols on us and rifles in the truck..."

He sighed and turned back to her. But after walking a few steps, hands in his pockets, he spun and walked the other way, pacing. As she watched him wear a path in her carpet, she remained silent, waiting patiently for him to continue. At this rate, it would be a miracle if this story was told before dawn. And somehow, she didn't mind.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2**

**1986**

The man was meticulously clean. Murdock knew that just by looking into the car from the outside. Though the outside was covered with mud, the inside was spotless - even wiped down. Mr. Curator was going to be very unhappy when Murdock put his muddy boots all over the floor.

It only took him a few seconds to pry the door open. A second more to duck inside and set his assault rifle on the seat next to him. He wasn't worried about being seen. BA was keeping a lookout and he had a very specific job to do.

"Perhaps you'd like to take this somewhere a little more private?"

Murdock could hear the conversation, but he kept quiet. Anything he said, all three of them could hear as well. He didn't want to distract them. Especially not when they were face to face with what could very well be an enemy.

"I see no reason to relocate," the man - what had he said his name was? - replied. There was something about the tone in his voice that just sounded... off. Hannibal would notice it. He always noticed things like that. So would Face. Of course, Face had been off his game lately...

"It might be better to discuss business in someplace that's a little better suited."

"I see many businessmen here. What is not suitable?"

He was trying to stall them.

Murdock was trying to break open the glovebox. Funny, it was a lot harder to get into than the car itself had been. Probably should've just counted on spending the time to pick the lock, rather than just trying to bust it open. Oh, well. Couldn't change it now.

"9-mil pistol in the glove box. No registration on the car. Still looking."

"This may be your idea of a perfect atmosphere," Face said to the man, "but I'm getting a headache from the amount of Mary Jane in the air. I would _really _prefer to continue this discussion somewhere else."

What kind of trouble could this guy possibly be? He was just one man - one very neat little man with a fairly nice car, by comparison. But there was no reason to think he was a real threat. At least, not one that they couldn't escape fairly easily.

"I suppose we can step out back if you'd like."

Face and Hannibal had gotten their way. Out of the enclosed area and out to the back of the bar with its easily accessible driveway. BA could be back there in an instant if anything went wrong. Murdock sighed as he continued his search - for a receipt, a scribbled note, anything at all - but finding nothing at all. The man was too meticulous. There would be nothing in his car. Just one more way they were flying blind.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"We went out back with him. It should've actually been safer than being inside. Enclosed areas with a lot of civilians are places we typically want to avoid. Plus, there was a lot of marijuana inside - and God knows what else that they were smoking."

Jess watched him as he paced. He reminded her of a tiger, smooth, unemotional and detached. But underneath, all energy - motion and muscle, waiting to spring.

"Face?"

He stopped and turned to her, brows raised.

"Can I get a light?"

She was pretty sure her lighter was somewhere in her purse. But she didn't want to divide her attention and he needed a distraction. Whatever had him this wound up, it was probably going to require that she fortify herself with nicotine anyway.

"And the ashtray, please?"

He stared at her for a moment, blankly. The reaction was delayed, as if it had to get through layers and layers of thought before it finally computed. He apologized quickly as he reached into his pocket for his lighter, flicked it, and held it out for her. Then he turned and grabbed the ashtray, passing it to her as he clinked the lighter closed and replaced it in his pocket.

She pulled her legs under her and inhaled deeply, taking a second to enjoy the nicotine rush. He had stopped pacing, and his eyes had more focus. That was a good sign.

"What happened when you went outside?"

He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets and started pacing again, eyes down. So much for good signs.

"I kept trying to get a reading on the guy," he said. "But the whole time I'm sitting there, I'm thinking over and over again that if this doesn't work, we've got nothing. Absolutely nothing. Right back to square one. And I just... I couldn't let that happen. I knew – I think Hannibal did too – that the whole thing was a setup. Even if I couldn't think, couldn't concentrate, clearly enough to really know what it was. But we played along. We had to. Because the last thing either one of us wanted to do was to go back to that hotel room and sit there thinking about what could've happened if we'd just gone out on a limb with this guy."

**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2**

**1986**

"So what is it you can tell us now that you couldn't tell us at the museum?" Hannibal asked flatly.

Pich smiled pleasantly as he meandered slowly towards the back of the bar. "I had to be certain you were who I thought you were."

"Why?" Hannibal's eyes were narrowed. "What difference does it make?"

"Certain men I am willing to help. Other men, I am not."

Face was tense. He didn't try to hide it from his voice. "Would you care to be a little more specific as to which side of the spectrum we fall on?"

Pich laughed quietly as he stepped out into the darkness behind the bar. Face and Hannibal both kept their backs to the wall as they watched him. "I know you by reputation, Colonel Smith," Pich said. "You were an exceptional commander. I respect that."

"I'm flattered," Hannibal replied. "But that still doesn't answer the question."

"The man you are looking for. Was he one of yours?"  
Hannibal knew damn well he was avoiding the question. BA and Murdock, listening through the transmitter, would know it too. They were ready for anything. And this man was definitely going to throw something at them.

"Yes," Hannibal answered.

Pich nodded. "I thought so. But he was an American soldier. He would not have been at Tuol Sleng."

"Why?"

Pich hesitated for a long moment, and handed the photograph back. "I will be very honest with you, Colonel Smith."

"I'd be more impressed if you could manage honest and _forthcoming_."

Pich looked at Hannibal, then Face, then back to Hannibal again. "I said that I heard of you in the war. But I was not, strictly speaking, on your side."

"I figured that much."

"I was a captain in the Cambodian Army.When the Khmer Rouge came to power in 1975, I was willfully retained in their service."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "You mean those same people who did all that killing you talk about at the museum."

"You must understand. Those were very different times."

"I understand different times just fine. What I don't understand is where you're going with this."

"I fled the country in '79, when the Vietnamese captured Phnom Penh, and returned only two years ago under a different name and identity."

"Alright, so let's say we believe you. What does this have to do with the Americans? I'm not aware of any direct confrontations between our two armies. As far as I know, all of our dealings in your country were with the Viet Cong operating there."

Pich nodded. "Indeed they were. But we were not ignorant of them."

"Or of the American prisoners taken in your country?" Face guessed.

Pich looked up and met his eyes. "We never wanted American prisoners in our country. I am sure you can understand the ramifications, if it became a matter of public knowledge."

"So what did you do with them?" Hannibal demanded.

"There was never to be POWs held on our soil. That was made very clear."

"But you couldn't enforce it."

"Though they were held here, my government at the time accepted no responsibility for them. They were the property and responsibility of the Viet Cong."

"So they left when the VC did," Hannibal concluded. "And when was that? Because your country seems more or less occupied right now by the Vietnamese."

Pich nodded. "When the fighting between our country and Vietnam escalated, Vietnamese camps in Cambodian territory were attacked. There were few survivors. No Americans."

"That you know of."

"Hannibal, we got company," BA's voice through the transmitter was not entirely unexpected. Hannibal didn't flinch. He was ready to run, and he knew Face was too. But they were going to milk every second they had for information. This guy was probably the best source of it they would find.

"I'm fairly sure of it. The orders we were given were very clear – we were to execute all westerners by burning, to remove all traces of their remains. The practice extended to the prisons, as well. I promise you, there are no westerners in our prisons today except those who have been arrested in the past five years."

"Why are you telling us this?" Face asked, wary of the honesty.

Pich's smile was subtle, almost patronizing. "Because as I said, I respect Colonel Hannibal Smith. And I would simply feel like I was not giving you the proper respect if I withheld the information you are so willing to die for."

"Who said anything about willing to die?"

"Three trucks, at least five or six guys in each truck." BA paused. "Murdock, get outta that car."

"Just waiting for a clear path, big guy."

"Would you believe there is still a price on your head, twenty years after this war has been said and done?"

Hannibal saw the gun. And he saw the shadows moving, heard BA's warning in his ear and the trucks that pulled up. "This don't look good, Hannibal. These guys got rifles."

Attack. Ambush. Face moved suddenly, and Hannibal responded without thinking. In the half second it took Pich to shift his gun to Face's advancing threat, Hannibal struck for his arm. He was close, and that had been his mistake. As Hannibal grabbed his wrist, the gun discharged into the air.

Face pried the gun out of the Pich's hand and jabbed it into his chest. "I oughtta shoot you right now," Hannibal said darkly. "But I won't, since you were so forthcoming with your information."

"Murdock, where you at?"

Rustling, shuffling. Murdock wasn't supposed to still be in that car. What was he doing in there? He needed to be in the van, so that it could fly around the corner, ahead of the trucks, and they could take themselves a hostage. But when long seconds passed, and nothing happened, he had no choice but to revert to plan B. They had to run. And damned if they weren't taking their information source with them.

Face's internal timer was on the same frequency as Hannibal's. He knew when it was too long. He shoved Pich back with the gun, hard enough to make him stumble. Hannibal grabbed the handle of the back door and threw it open, and they were both back inside of the club before a single gun could fire. It was entirely possible that the men who'd just shown up would filter into the club, too. But Face and Hannibal had to get back to the truck, and running along the back of the building left them pretty much out in the open.

"BA, we'll be coming out the front."

A brief pause. "Sorry, Hannibal," BA answered flatly. "Got a problem."

*X*X*X*

The four men standing in front of the truck, with assault rifles pointed through the windshield at BA were not gun runners, extortionists, or hit men. They were soldiers of the Cambodian military, and from the looks of it, they were here to make an arrest. Whatever charges they had in hand, those accusations probably paled in comparison to what they'd find when they actually got them into interrogation. These were not local sheriffs in some rinky-dink town, or even the US Military police. And their interrogation procedures were not the same. Their rules were much simpler. Answer the questions or die.

Murdock hesitated as he watched them from the back seat of the car. He had a clear shot, but so did they. And these were soldiers. More than that, they were soldiers who were used to shooting, and being shot at. And they weren't _his _soldiers. They would shoot to kill, and there was almost nothing between those bullets and BA.

Murdock looked for any other way. But he didn't see it.

"I've got a shot, BA," he said quietly, leveling the gun over the back of the seat. "What are they saying?"

"I don't know!"

"You know their language."

"No, I don't! I don't remember!"

"I don't –"

Murdock didn't have a chance to finish. Everything happened at once. The three men in front of the truck opened fire, and at the first shot, Murdock did the same. There was no thought involved. "BA!"

He watched the men slump to the ground, and kicked the car door open, feet tangled as he struggled to go from an off-balance stumble to a run with nothing in between. Past the lifeless, bleeding bodies of the Cambodian soldiers and to the door of the truck. He jerked it open without thought, his heart pounding in his ears.

BA was lying on the seat, crouched and covered in broken glass, but there was no blood. Instead, Murdock was met with the barrel of a pistol and a wide-eyed look of panic. He jumped back, hands raised. "BA, don't shoot! Don't shoot – it's me!"

The image and voice connected, and BA pushed himself up, looking around frantically. "What happened! What happened, man!"

He was alive. That was the one and only thing Murdock cared about.

"You're okay!" Scanning for more potential threats, Murdock put one hand to his ear, over the receiver. "Hannibal! We're okay! Where are you!" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw more cars – in a line. He didn't need three guesses to figure out they were headed straight for them.

"Get the truck to the front door!"

Murdock could hear the sounds of a fight – yelling, cries... but no guns. He grabbed BA's shoulder and jerked him up straight. "Come on, big guy, you gotta drive."

Then he slammed the door shut, grabbed the wood planks on the back of the truck, and half-climbed, half-vaulted into the bed of the truck.

"Hannibal get outta there! There's more of these guys coming!"


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2**

**1986**

They could see the door. The inside of the club had turned into a boxing ring as soon as Pich had made it through the back door and yelled something in his native Khmer that Hannibal didn't understand. Whatever it had been, it had brought damn near every one of the men inside to his feet, and they rushed the two Americans with fists raised.

Hannibal could hold his own. So could Face. Their knuckles split as they rushed through anyone in their path. They weren't interested in fighting, in stopping, in making any point. They just needed to get to that door. Behind them, they left at least a dozen guys on the floor, not getting back up. But they were taking a beating as well, and running out of time.

And they had lost Pich.

As the first few rounds from a semi-automatic riddled the ceiling, it signaled the end of all rounds. They bolted in the brief second of confusion.

Hannibal didn't realize until he was at the door that Face wasn't beside him. There hadn't been a gunshot, and they'd had a clear path. He was sure he would've heard it if Face had tripped. He was startled to realize that he was alone, and skidded to a stop, spinning to look back.

"Face!"

Face was standing, dead still and shoulders back, staring straight at him. His gaze was steady, confident. "If we get out of here," he said quietly, too low to hear but for the microphone in his shirt, "we'll never know for sure."

Hannibal's eyes widened. Face didn't flinch as the crowd overtook him, wrenching his arms behind his back, blows landing on his face and chest and gut.

"Hannibal! Come on!"

No time to think. Hannibal spun, threw open the door, and bolted outside. The truck was waiting, door open. Hannibal vaulted inside, the shattered glass from the windshield cutting into his hands. "Go!"

"Where's Face?"

"I said go!"

BA sped away before Hannibal even had a chance to close the door behind him.

Hannibal sat up, pulled the door shut, and hit the dash with the heel of his bloody hand so hard it cracked. The pain of the glass fragments burying deeper went completely unnoticed in the overload of adrenaline.

"Damn it!"

"What happened?" BA cried. "What happened to Face?"

"He let them take him, Colonel." Murdock's voice was less panicked, but was almost lost in the wind as the wheels spun frantically in the mud, and they slid back and forth along the road. "Was that part of the plan that I didn't know about?"

"No!" Hannibal hit the dash again. "God damn it, kid, what the hell were you thinking!"

But they were already out of range of Face's radio, and the sounds of the bar vanished into silence.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"You did _what_!" The shock made Jessica forget everything but the words he'd just said. It was a full five seconds before she could even breathe again. "Are you out of your mind!"

Face turned away from her, pacing again, but slower now, head down. "I didn't think about it. At least, not then. I'd put it in my head, when I was crouched in that cage, looking at the names of those men... all that was left..."

His shoulders rose and fell with the breath he took, and he winced as his lungs pressed against his cracked ribs. "It was real to me then. It wasn't just some abstract concept like 'closure.' And it wasn't about the woman who'd hired us. Wasn't about money, wasn't about winning... wasn't about _anything_ except... finishing this. And that meant doing whatever I had to do."

"Face, that is crazy! You could've been killed!"

"Yes."

"They could've shot you right then and there!"  
"Yes. But I knew they wouldn't."

"How did you know that?"

"Because I knew they would want information. Who was I, what was I doing there, who was I working for."

She stared at him, jaw dropped. Was that somehow supposed to make it better? A prison in that corner of the world was a death sentence even if you _weren't _wanted for war crimes. Jessica knew that the four of them had all been held as POWs. She knew Face understood. She didn't have to tell him. The bigger problem was, he didn't have to tell her, either. She had seen more than one death camp survivor come through the VA. Not long ago, she had operated on an Air Force captain's shoulders. The man had been strung up and caned so often so long that he was unable to left his arms, dress or even feed himself. Just what kind of hell had Face so willingly walked into?

"I can't believe you, Face."

She was on her feet, her voice much louder and harsher than necessary. But she couldn't control it. Patient though she may be, she had been carefully mothering him, caring for him, since he'd arrived. And he was standing there telling her that he'd willingly tossed his life aside with no consideration for the people who cared about him. How was she _supposed _to feel about that?

He didn't answer. She took a few seconds to calm down, proud that her hand did not shake as she finally put the cigarette in her mouth and took a deep, slow drag. She was in shock, and reeling with questions. Had he lost his mind?

She tapped the ash to buy a couple seconds time. "I can't believe that you would do that," she finally said, her voice oddly flat. There was no emotion to express the conflict she felt. "That you would just... throw your life away like that when you didn't even know that there was _anything _to be gained by it."

"I didn't think about it like that."

He sighed deeply. She sat back down as she watched him push his hands through his hair.

"Hell, Jess, if I stopped to think about it every time I could get killed for making _any _call..."

"Yeah, but this wasn't just any call!"

He didn't defend himself against that accusation. It wasn't the same as all their other missions they took, and he knew it. She breathed slow and deep, staring at the carpet as she tried to create some type of order in her mind, to bring her emotions back under control.

"Hannibal and I had talked about it before we ever went over there," he finally said quietly. "The best way to find out about a prison was to talk to prisoners. And if I wanted to know where they kept American prisoners, I was in a unique position to _become _one."

She glanced up reluctantly. The look on his face softened some of the conflicting feelings she was having. He was hurting. It was uncomfortable to see that on top of his bruises. The anger suppressed her instinct to comfort.

"You and Hannibal talked about it. Does that mean he knew you might do this?"

Face sighed as he turned away again. "I don't know. No. I don't think so. It wasn't _planned _that way. It's just... When it came right down to it, I just did it. I didn't even..."

He shook his head, trailing off.

**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2**

**1986**

Face was neither surprised by the drill, nor alarmed by it. Out behind the club, escorted by men on either side, he was stripped of his jacket, then thrown face first into the wall. He knew the drill, and fell easily into the stress position they placed him in - braced on his fingers and toes, leaning against the wall, legs and arms spread. His jaw was set, and he didn't flinch as they searched him, confiscating his pistol, his knife, his wallet, and his lighter. He had nothing else in his pockets, and no other obvious weapons.

Satisfied that he was clean, one of the men shoved an AK against his shoulder, pushing him upright. Pich stepped forward as he regained his balance, just in time to have his arms wretched behind him. "Noble," Pich said darkly, eyes narrowed. "But stupid. You should know there is a price on your head as well – almost as high as the one on his."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Face said flatly, void of emotion.

"No?"

He winced, involuntarily, as the man to his right jerked his arm so hard and so far he damn near dislocated it. "No," he repeated with a glare.

"If I had to guess, I would say you are Army Lieutenant Templeton Peck. Am I right?"

Face smiled, defiantly. "Damn, you are good. Don't tell me there's a bounty on my head in _your _country, too."

"In my country? No. But in Vietnam, the bounty is considerable."

"Gee, I'm flattered. Even fifteen years after the fact, it's enough to make you go through all this trouble for little old me?"

"Don't be flattered. Your crimes against the people of Vietnam far exceed the worth of your life."

"Fair enough. So what are you planning to do? Extradite me?" Face's eyes narrowed as he glared at the man standing in front of him. "My government might well have something to say about that."

The blow to the side of his skull made his head ring loudly. "Do not think that your government will save you. In a few hours, they will not be able to find you even if they tried."

Through the confusion and disorientation of the blow, Face caught the words. He was careful not to show any reaction as the men on either side of him jerked him upright again and shoved him forward, towards the cars.

*X*X*X*

"He still got that little transmitter on him, Hannibal," BA said as he picked the glass out of his palms with his fingernails. "The one for tracking him. But the range only goes about ten miles."

They'd stopped as soon as they were sure they weren't being followed, to regroup and re-plan. And, BA hoped, to give Hannibal a chance to calm down. It had been a long time since he'd seen Hannibal so mad. For once, BA wasn't joining him in his anger binge. He was far too concerned to be angry.

"So we follow them," Hannibal said darkly, glaring at the blood on his hands. "Make sure you're getting a signal. If not, we need to double back."

"Right."

Hannibal glanced up as Murdock jumped down from the back of the truck and came around to the window. Hannibal didn't bother holding eye contact.

"Murdock, you drive, BA monitors the signal, and we pray to God they don't find that transmitter on him."

The tone was not one he used often – irritated and impatient. It made BA's frown deepen. The amount of blood on Hannibal's hands, both from the glass and his split knuckles, didn't help to ease his concern.

"You okay, Colonel?" Murdock asked.

"Where were you!"

Murdock stepped back, momentarily caught off guard.

"You were supposed to be in the damn truck!"

Murdock froze, with a look on his face like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Get in the car," Hannibal ordered him. "You're driving. BA, get that damn signal up so we know what direction we're going in."

Hannibal was still cleaning the blood off his hands when Murdock got into the driver's seat. BA was already trying to tune in the small little beacon that would enable them to monitor Face's whereabouts.

"Where you think they'll take him, Hannibal?"

"I know where he was hoping they'd take him," Hannibal answered coldly.

Murdock was wringing his hands around the steering wheel. BA glanced at him with concern, noting the dead look in his eyes as he stared at the road in front of him, waiting for direction. He didn't say a word. That meant that BA had to do all the talking.

"Think they just gonna throw him in a civilian prison? Or a military one?"

"They can't put him in a civilian prison," Hannibal said. "The last thing they want is an international incident with the US. And that's exactly what they'd get if this leaked to the American press."

"That's well within our capabilities, you know," Murdock said low. His voice was unfeeling. BA hated when he sounded like that.

"I know. And they know. Which is why it doesn't do us much good. Besides, best case scenario, the US would get him extradited."

"So maybe they _do _put him in with any other prisoners they don't want nobody knowin' about," BA suggested. "What then?"

"I don't even fucking know what to do with him right now," Hannibal growled under his breath. "This isn't a _game_. He damn well needed to _talk _to me before he went off on a suicide mission."

BA had no answer for that. As he finally got a lock on the signal, he glanced up at Murdock. "We almost outta range. We need to go back a little. In case they go the other direction."

Murdock nodded, and wordlessly pulled the windowless pickup truck back out onto the muddy road.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"It wasn't a suicide mission, Jess," Face said softly. "I trust my team implicitly. The whole thing was just a spur of the moment decision that I made because I knew, no matter what... they would get me out of it or die trying. And maybe I had no right to make that call. But I did. I had to."

She watched him, brow furrowed. It was impossible for her to reconcile so many things that were so foreign to her. He believed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his team would do that. And since he was standing in front of her, he must have been right. She had always known they were close, but she had never believed such a level of love and friendship could exist in this world. Until now, she had never seen evidence of it.

The world seemed to shift and rearrange itself as a new reality set it. Face was so much more than she had imagined, and he was intertwined with the team in a way that he would never be removed from. He would never leave them. And she took some comfort in knowing that when he was doing incredibly dangerous things, he had friends that would die defending each other. But maybe more important was what it said about Face. The level of dedication and love that he was capable of shocked her. Soldiers were selfless, as a rule. But the complete and utter trust...

It suddenly occurred to her that if she hadn't loved him before, she was hopelessly buried in those emotions now.

She put that unwelcome thought out of her mind as he crossed back and sat down on the bed beside her. She felt the mattress sink under his weight, and the warmth of his body next to her. Not touching, but reassuring by its presence. For a long moment, he didn't speak again. When he finally did, it was low, almost a whisper.

"I was wearing a transmitter. I knew they'd follow it. They would do their part. I just had to do mine."

"What was your part, Face?" she asked, dreading the answer. She already knew it. It was written in the bruises.

He turned and looked at her quietly for a long moment. His eyes were deep, filled with emotion that was too much and too confused for her to read. "To survive."


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2**

**1986**

Face was blindfolded for the majority of the drive. He lost his sense of direction after the first hour or so of turns. His fingers were numb, and his arms hurt. He was pretty sure that the cuffs around his wrists were making his throbbing hands purple. He was also pretty sure that he hadn't experienced anything yet compared to what was awaiting him. His situation was going to get a whole lot more uncomfortable before it got better.

It was worth it, just for the chance. They'd talked about it from the beginning; the best way to get information on a prisoner was to become one and see who was willing to share information. If they had planned it, it couldn't have been any more perfect. Not only was he going to jail, he was most likely going to jail with other political prisoners – to a place where they could make sure nobody would try to rescue him.

The rescue portion of this story was not his problem. Hannibal would take care of that. Face was acutely aware of the transmitter sewn to the inside of his shirt. Even if they took his shirt – which they would do, eventually – as long as the transmitter made it to the general area of wherever they were taking him, he was sure that Hannibal would follow.

The blindfold stayed on even after the car stopped. Without his eyes, he paid closer attention to everything else around him – the thick mud under his feet, the hiss of the rain hitting the trees. They were in the jungle – deep under the canopies of trees overhead.

Car doors and talking. Orders and shouted commands. Not sure what they wanted, he let himself be led. Two cement steps. Through the door. Hotter inside. Stale air. He took in a deep breath. God damn, his hands hurt...

He was loud as they led him down the hallway, announcing his presence. "You're not going to get away with this, you fucking bastards! I'm an American!"

It didn't do much for his health. Every few steps, the guards stopped to take the breath out of him again with a few well-aimed blows. It didn't deter him. He wasn't doing it for them, and he wasn't going to stop for them, either. He wanted this whole damn prison to know who and what he was.

"I'm an American soldier! You can't do this to me!"

He knew the guards probably didn't understand a word of his English. But there was a chance that the men behind the locked steel doors might.

"I'm an American soldier, god damn it!"

The blow to the back of his legs took him to his knees, and one of the guards ripped his blindfold off, glaring down at him in hate-filled fury. Face immediately raised his chin, glaring back into the man's fiery stare. There was a gun to his forehead a moment later, and a few low, angry threats in Khmer. He didn't understand them. He didn't have to. He submitted to the gun even though he doubted very highly that they would shoot him. He suspected he was more valuable alive than dead, or they would've killed him at the bar.

After a few seconds of silence, the man to his right jerked him to his feet again and shoved him forward. He stumbled a few steps before he caught his balance. As they reached the end of the hall, the guard swung open a thick metal door, grabbed his shoulder, and shoved him inside of a dark room.

He turned back instantly, and screamed a loud, "Fuck you!"

It was his final act of defiance before the guard's pistol cracked against the side of his skull, and Face felt himself falling into blackness, unaided by his shackled hands.

*X*X*X*

"They stopped."

If Hannibal even heard BA, he made no indication of it at first. He was staring out the front of the truck at the rain. He didn't have to look outside to see it; it was coming in through the hole where the windshield had once been, soaking them.

He didn't look over as he spoke. "How far away?"

"About five clicks northwest."

"What's on the map?"

BA looked. "Nothing, Hannibal. No city, no town, just jungle."

"Fine. Murdock, go another mile or so up, then pull off wherever you see a good place to hide this truck – the further off of the road, the better."

"Will do, Colonel."

It was a little tricky finding a place to pull off the mud road. It was even trickier trying to camouflage the truck. The pouring rain didn't help. BA wasn't looking forward to the long hike through the jungle in the rain. But more importantly, "It's gettin' late, Hannibal."

Hannibal glanced up at him, then immediately looked away again. BA frowned. That wasn't the response he'd been hoping for.

"You know we can't go through this jungle in the dark."

If it were any other situation, Hannibal might have argued that they could do whatever they damn well pleased. But even his frustration wasn't enough to counter years of experience in this very same jungle. Travelling at night in the jungle was suicide. Even the VC hadn't been willing to take that kind of risk, and they had known this jungle well.

"What's the plan to RON?"

"RON?" Hannibal's anger came out in BA's direction. "You know damn well how crucial the first few hours are and you want to rest overnight?"

"Well, other than that, we take this truck and go right up to the front gate. 'Cause you and I both know we can't get through this jungle at night. And the truck prob'ly ain't gonna go much further either in the dark. So what do you wanna do?"

Hannibal hit the hood of the truck with the side of his fist, but didn't say a word. BA watched him silently, just waiting. It was a strange role reversal - Hannibal's anger and BA's calm. But BA had to be calm. For one thing, Hannibal was not. For another, he was flat out too concerned to be angry.

"Hannibal, you know he gonna be okay, right?"

"Okay?" Hannibal stopped, and sighed as he leaned forward against the truck, resting his head on his forearm. "Yeah. I'm sure he's going to be just fine."

"Face know how to survive."

"I'm not worried about them killing him." Hannibal looked up, eyes locked on BA's. "He's too potentially valuable for that."

In the long silence, Murdock stepped away from the foliage and approached with a concerned look on his face. "Potentially?"

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. "He knew who I was. I guarantee you it's not because he heard of my glowing reputation and hoped he'd someday get the opportunity to shake my hand."

"You think they'll know Face?"

"I'm sure of it."

"And how you think that'll make any difference?" BA interjected.

Hannibal didn't answer, just looked away.

"He in it bad, Hannibal. You know that, we know it, and he knows it. It don't matter if they know his name or not."

"I would think, if anything, they would keep him alive because of it," Murdock said.

"They will. They'll want to make an example out of him."

The serious, pained tone in Hannibal's voice cut BA to the bone. The tone was almost as bad as what he'd actually said, and the fact that BA knew he was right. He had to remind himself that it didn't make any difference, that things were still what they were. They weren't going anywhere until morning, and Face would have to make it until then.

"He strong, Hannibal. Face is strong. Face will make it."

Hannibal shook his head, hanging it between his shoulders. "I just really wish he wouldn't have done that."

Murdock smiled tightly, trying in vain to lighten the discussion. "You've changed plans on _him _enough times."

Hannibal glanced over, and Murdock shrugged. "Just sayin', Colonel."

"But we _had_ a plan."

"Yeah, and it might've worked," Murdock said. "Or we might've had to change it as we went. But now we got this plan. And you'll make it work just like you always do."

"You good at that, Hannibal. You always been good at makin' it work."

Hannibal looked at both of them, in turn, but said nothing.

"Fine," he finally relented. "We RON. But keep an eye on that tracking beacon. If they're doing the same thing, and they move him, I don't want to lose him."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"It must have made Hannibal crazy," Face said quietly. "Not knowing. Not being in control."

His eyes were pools of turmoil. It took a conscious effort on her part not to break the gaze.

"I had a two way transmitter - the one we'd been talking on in the bar. Different from the tracking device. But they'd know as soon as I tried to use it. Not a lot of radio transmissions in the middle of the jungle. I knew they'd pick it up.

"We were cut off from each other. No plan... we just had to know. I just had to survive, and they just had to know I would."

A small, rueful smile played over her lips. "Surviving is something you've always been good at."

This time, there was a small tremor in her hand as she tapped the ashes into the tray again. She didn't want to know what they did, she had to know. She was afraid to listen, but she had no choice. He needed her to listen.

But knowing that didn't make it any easier to quiet the emotions that were washing over her. Horror at the thought of him being alone in a dark prison cell in a hostile country. Fear for him and, even more, empathy. It took everything she had to listen to what had happened and not breakdown, and she knew how the story ended. He was alive and intact. How had Hannibal – the whole team, really – managed to cope _without _knowing that? Her heart ached for all of them.

"How did you do it this time?"

He sighed, and lay back again, across the foot of the bed. He turned carefully onto his side, tucking his arm under his head carefully as he stared at the headboard. "I knew they'd come. That kept me going."

She took a deep drag, letting the smoke fortify her. Now was not the time for wild, free-running emotions. Exhaling a cloud of blue smoke, she prodded him again, gently. "What did you learn?"

He sighed. "From the moment I walked in there, I had only one focus. I wasn't looking for escape routes, I wasn't watching the guards. I just wanted to know who was in there. If there _were _other prisoners, and where they were. And who they were.

**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2**

**1986**

_Click... Click..._

Raindrops.

_Click... Snap... Dot..._

Raindrops on the windowpane. It was raining outside. Damn monsoon rains. He could smell them in the air. Feel it on his skin. Everything was wet and miserable. Hot. Feverish. He felt sick.

_Dot... Dot... Click... Click... _

Wait a minute.

_Click click click... _

There was no window here.

_Dot dot dot... click click click... _

Face opened his eyes, pulling himself out of the dream, the half-coherent haze. His head was ringing as he forced himself to look around at the dark cell, fighting through the layers of semi-consciousness. The pain reminded him of the blow. Reaching a hand up, he felt warm blood still oozing slowly. How long had he been unconscious? No way to tell.

He breathed in deep and slow, taking in the rotten stench of the prison. There were people here. He could smell them. But he couldn't hear them. There was only silence. No rain. Of course, he wouldn't have been able to hear it anyway. There were no windows here. No sound. Had he been imagining that sound?

_Clickclickclick_...

Definitely not imagining it.

_Click, click, click... clickclickclick..._

SOS. Face turned, and crawled to the corner of the room where the metal bucket for waste – the only thing in the room with him – was sitting unused. It would make the loudest sound, clanked against the metal on his wrists, and he didn't know how far away whoever he was talking to might be. But he knew that code. It was unmistakable, even with his mind blurred and a bit confused.

He acknowledged, and asked the first and only thing on his mind: "Who are you?"

Silence answered him. Damn, his hands felt swollen. He could barely move his fingers. He waited several long, agonizing minutes, then repeated the question. This time, he got an answer – the same SOS call. Damn it...

More tapping. Not Morse Code. All dots, all six or less... He listened silently to the conversation in a language he could not understand, turning the code every which way in his mind in an attempt to figure it out. Finally, the chatter ceased. What started again was Morse Code once again. "Who are you?"

Thank God. At least he could be sure that someone here actually knew that he was trying to communicate with them – and could talk back. "Peck, L-T, U-S Army."

Long silence answered him. He waited, and once his patience had worn out, tapped the metal again. "Who are you?"

He waited, quiet, praying for an answer. Finally, the clicking resumed – somewhat hesitantly. "Loren, M-A-J, U-S-A-F."

There was no way to pinpoint everything Face felt as he dropped his head forward until his chin touched his chest. A quiet, choked sob - joy? remorse? - escaped him as he realized he had nothing more to say. Someone was alive. After all these years, someone had survived.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"There was an Air Force major in there. And I knew he wasn't the only one; he was talking to other people. Some kind of code. Not Morse. I couldn't decipher it."

Jessica's jaw was nearly on the floor. "Sweet Jesus, there were really American POWs there?"

He looked back at her, locking eyes. There was deep honesty in his gaze. No way in hell he would make something like that up. No way in hell he could find a way to cover over everything it made him feel. But the idea that there were still prisoners twelve years after the war, in a country that denied even being a part of the war, was almost impossible for her to grasp.

She had been in Vietnam. She had heard about and seen some of the things that happened to POWs. Those places were called death camps for a reason. The teams that went and pulled those POWs out had found people that the government had never even looked for. But this... This filled here with a new and unmatched sense of awe.

"I can't... explain everything that happened in my head when I heard..."

He swallowed hard, choking on emotion, and shut his eyes, turning his head away. She had to fight her instinct to move closer to him. He didn't want that now, and she knew it. Seeing him fight for control, she felt like a voyeur - like she was watching a private, internal battle she had no right to see. With a lump in her throat she turned her head and spent a moment intently studying the ashtray as she crushed out her cigarette. She listened to his slightly ragged breathing and waited for it to even out. He need a moment, and the least he could do was give it to him.

"You know, I... I understand the limits and what's just not realistic," he finally whispered. "I know damn well that logically, what happened there had absolutely nothing to do with me, and I couldn't have done anything about it."

There was a flash of something - anger? - in his eyes when he looked back at her. As he finished in a low whisper, she realized that "anger" was exactly right.

"But damn it, we _left _them there! How do you deal with that? How do you apologize for that? How do you even _feel _enough remorse?"

She swallowed. He turned away again, putting his hand over his eyes.

"It makes me wonder how in the hell I ever slept at night."

"You and the team were out there all the time," she reminded him quietly. "You told me yourself, you were _known_ for how much you went out after those men." She shook her head, words spilling out of her mouth on their own. "You didn't leave anyone. You were taken out of Vietnam in handcuffs, at gun point, remember? The government left those men there. You guys risked everything for them. You always did."

He sat up, eyes flashing, anger sudden and palpable. "And we could've done it _just_ as easily five or ten years ago!"

She saw his anger and waited. He would never hurt her; she knew that. She wasn't afraid of anything except that he would stop talking. He realized the emotional outburst quickly, and set his jaw, looking away. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, pulled himself back under control.

"I'm sorry. It's..." Another deep, slow breath.

"It's okay."

"We knew we might have to deal with that before we ever went out there. We talked about it. But it's just... We didn't really expect we'd find anyone _alive_. And even having thought about it - talked about it - before we went... It didn't make it any easier."

He was quiet for a long moment, shaking his head. She let him gather his thoughts, let him regroup as the emotions finally overwhelmed him, and he leaned forward, curling into a ball to hide his face and the silent sobs.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**THURSDAY, APRIL 3**

**1986**

Face needed the handcuffs off. Much longer, and he was going to risk permanent damage to his hands. He doubted that mattered much to his captors, but it mattered a great deal to him.

They'd thrown him into the cell with his own clothes, and even his shoes. Stupid move on their part, but it was a damn good thing for him. Wincing at the difficulty – and the pain – he pulled his arms under him and left them in his lap. They were purple, and swollen. Struggling with dexterity that was more lacking now than he ever remembered it being in his life, he turned the bottom of his pant leg up, and found the little slit in the hem. Working quickly, he pushed and massaged and pulled at the hem until a tiny white object appeared in the slit. He grabbed it with his fingernails, carefully freed it, and folded his pants back down. The PVC tape was wrapped twice around a small fishing hook, and a bobby pin.

It took several long, agonizing minutes before he was able to pick the lock. His fingers simply didn't want to cooperate. When the cuff finally released off his right wrist, the sudden pain of the blood rushing made him bite his lip. He gave himself just a few seconds to get used to it, then went to work on the other wrist. He'd have to put the cuffs back on before his captors came back – the best thing he could do was to let them underestimate him – but for the moment, he let them sit on the floor of the cell as he looked around in the dark.

He couldn't really see anything. It was too dark. But he could tell that the cement walls of the room were crumbling. As he ran his hand along the wall of the cell, the top layer turned to dust. He wouldn't do that again. Better not to make an issue of the weak structure, or they might do something to fix it. He shook his head as he considered that thought. Do something to fix it? That would take months. He didn't intend to be here for months. He didn't intend to be here for very long at all once Hannibal got a lock on the signal from the transmitter inside his shirt.

He checked the room for listening devices, and found none. After a quick sweep, he returned to sit against the wall. With one eye on the door, and ears ever-perked for the sound of footsteps in the hallway, he reached for the fishing hook he'd set aside. Still rubbing his hands to try and help the blood flow, he leaned forward to remove his shoe.

The fishing hook scraped away the superglue that had sealed the cut in the slightly raised heel of his shoe. Once he was able to get his fingernails inside, he pried the two parts of the shoe apart. Inside the sole of the shoe were a few needles, a razor, and another hook – this one a bit longer. Face wanted the hook.

Turning towards the wall, he rubbed the hook back and forth on the wall, right next to the floor, until he'd dug a small crevice. Into that crevice went the razor, the needle, the hooks, and – most importantly, the radio that was doubling as the top button of his shirt. The wire and battery went too, as well as the tiny earpiece. If – when – they searched him more thoroughly, he didn't want them to find it. He would need it later. He would've cut the transmitter out of the shirt, and hid that as well, but they were more likely to notice the hole than the transmitter itself. They would find it sooner or later. That was fine. He was sure it had done its job by now.

*X*X*X*

Hannibal was up at first light. He hadn't really been sleeping anyway. Wet and hot and miserable, he'd been listening to the rain and watching the little red blip on the handheld tracker. And wondering just how long it would be before the batteries on one or the other side of their tracking system gave out. As the scenery slowly got lighter, the rain kept right on pouring. Undeterred, he finally crawled out of the truck and took a good look around. As he'd expected, there wasn't much to see. It was the same jungle it had always been.

Murdock and BA were up and moving only minutes later. Nobody said a word as they covered the truck as best they could, grabbed their gear, and headed into the overgrowth, following the little red dot. Hannibal had to admit that the little red dot was comforting. It gave him a destination, a goal that he could see. They weren't just looking for whatever they might find. And it was the first time in this entire mission that he could say that.

The overgrowth was thick - at times impassible without a machete, which they didn't have. Unable to bring their own supplies from the States, they'd had to make do with whatever they could find here. Hannibal was just glad for the working guns.

The structure they came to was crumbling. As he lowered to the jungle floor and stared at it, surveying the entire area, it took him a long moment to realize that it was still considered a functional building. All of the walls on the west wing had disintegrated. Two of the four guard towers had fallen. The fence was drooping and unsecured.

"This can't be right," Murdock said low, pressed down into the mud beside Hannibal. "This is where they keep their most dangerous criminals?"

"No," Hannibal answered quietly. "It's where they keep the people they don't want anyone to ever find."

"Finding it's always the hardest part," BA said.

"And Face knew it." Hannibal turned and looked BA straight in the eye. "You still got those charges?"

"Yeah."

"And they're dry?" That was the big question.

"Yeah."

Hannibal moved back a bit, sitting with his legs crossed in front of him. "One of those charges will take out half that building. The problem is, if the whole thing crumbles, we could end up killing everyone inside. It'd be like watching a dilapidated brick building in an earthquake."

"I could do it," BA said confidently. "I could make it so it just takes out one wall."

Hannibal paused for just a minute before taking him at his word. "But which wall?" Hannibal mused quietly.

"Any way to zoom in on that tracking thing?" Murdock asked, nodding to the device still in BA's hand.

"I could recalibrate it. But I ain't got the tools with me."

"We can talk to Face, on the inside."

Both BA and Murdock paused, and stared at Hannibal. He paused before continuing.

"The problem is, we won't be able to talk to him for very long. And we have to assume they'll be monitoring the transmission."

"Face will remember all the codes."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"They'll find the radio," Murdock realized. "If they haven't already."

"There's only one way to know for sure," Hannibal continued. "Talking to him will give us everything we need to know in sixty seconds or less. Assuming he's conscious, and that he's managed to hold onto the transmitter. The trade off is, we lose the element of surprise, and they know Face is more of a threat than he appears to be."

"You think they'd move him?"

"I don't think I want to give them that opportunity."

"So what's the plan?"

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment, debating quietly. If BA could take out the wall near Face, the three of them could get him out before anyone inside knew what hit them. The structural integrity of the building made that a risk, but if BA was confident, Hannibal was confident in him. The problem was, they didn't know which wall was near Face. If they took out a random wall, it would cause a distraction and give them time to get in and get Face out. That seemed like a more viable plan. Especially if they could rig _multiple _distractions. Hannibal was more than confident in BA's ability to do that. That plan was tried and true except for one very important fact: Face wasn't necessarily their only goal here.

As much as Hannibal hated it, he did understand. Face had put his life on the line for a chance at... what? Information? A living POW? The latter was beyond Hannibal's scope of expectation, but not beyond the limits of possibility. Even if not American, anyone inside of there who helped Face was deserving of their assistance to get out. Face may well be their top priority, but he was not their only one. And there was no telling how much anyone else inside may be able to aid in their own escape. That considerably impeded he success of a blitz attack.

Hannibal looked over the structure. They had no chance of moving in quietly; they were Americans and couldn't hide that fact. If they had darkness on their side and knew the exact layout, it might have been a possibility. But they didn't even know how many guards were in there. The surveillance they would need to do in order to find out would take too much time, and every minute Face spent in there was a threat to his life.

The uncertainty was the biggest threat. And while normally, Hannibal was more than confident in his ability to roll with the punches, this was a chess match he didn't want to risk losing. At least some of the uncertainty could be eliminated by talking to Face, but it would put him in greater danger and there was no way to tell if it was worth it. If he knew his position, if he was certain he was the only one in there, or if he could do something to help them from that end, they could be in and out and the whole thing could be over in ten minutes. If they needed reinforcements, and they risked contacting Face, he could be dead by the time they got back.

"Colonel?"

He looked back at the building. It was a crumbling building, but still a large one. What were the chances that they were going to need reinforcements? What were the chances that Face was going to be able to give them everything they needed? And what were the chances, if they took the time to set up a proper ambush, that Face would be alive and well at the end of it all? It was a hard call - the kind Hannibal hated to make. But in the end, Face had made his own decision. Whether he approved or whether he hated it, Hannibal had to respect it.

"There's too many variables," Hannibal said quietly. "The three of us might get in there and get Face out, but even that isn't what this is all about."

Murdock's brow furrowed. "You really think there's -"

"It doesn't matter what I think," Hannibal interrupted. "The fact is, I don't know. And I'm not willing to gamble with this one. If, by some chance, there _are_ living, breathing Americans in there, I will not be the force that kills them, after fifteen years of survival. And that's to say nothing of Face."

"So what's the plan, Hannibal?"

Hannibal took a deep breath and let it out slow. "We need to know what he knows. He's had the night to establish contact if any contact can be made. If not, and he's the only one in there, we move now."

"And if he isn't alone?"

Another deep, calming breath. "Then they're going to find the transmitter. And we're going to go get reinforcements."

"Go?" Murdock was clearly startled by that. "Go as in leave? They'll kill him!"

"Having a radio doesn't diminish his worth at all," Hannibal said confidently. "It'll just piss them off."

Murdock's wide eyes were mirrored in the frantic tone. "Pissing off torturers is -"

"This is not up for discussion, Captain."

Murdock looked as if he'd just been struck. Jaw slack, he stared at Hannibal for a long moment, then slowly pulled himself together, dragging the emotion under control with a whispered, "Yes, Sir."

Hannibal looked at BA. "If that becomes necessary, you stay here," he said calmly. "If they try to move him, you _stop _them. By whatever means you have. He is our only concern at that point."

BA nodded solemnly. "Right, Hannibal."

"Get him on the line," Hannibal ordered, ignoring the way that Murdock shrank back and sat on his heels. "And pray to God he at least answers."

*X*X*X*

"One-One, this is One-Zero, copy?"

Face went from half-asleep to fully alert in less than a second, scrambling to sit up and brush aside the dust he'd used to reseal the wall. That sound was faint, but in the eerie silence of the pitch black cell, it was unmistakable.

"One-One, this is One-Zero, copy?"

It took him only a second to withdraw the button microphone, and insert the speaker into his ear "One-Zero, this is One-One, copy, over."

A long pause. "SITREP."

Face's answer was immediate. "There are diamonds in the rough. Repeat, diamonds in the rough, over."

There was no doubt that Hannibal remembered the code words. That message wouldn't be hard for the guards to figure out either. But it was habit, and Face used them without thinking.

"How many?"

"Unknown. More than one."

"Alive?"

"Affirmative."

"What else can you tell me?"

Hannibal wasn't bothering with the code words. That being the case, Face followed suit. "I was blindfolded when they brought me in. I don't know the layout and I don't know where I am. No windows. Walls are crumbling. Multiple cells, five by ten, I'm in here alone."

"Are you hurt?"

"Not presently. Though there are very large spiders." Guards.

"How many?"

"More than twenty. All venomous as far as I can tell. Hope you brought some Raid to kill the damn things."

Hannibal paused for a long moment. "We were hoping we wouldn't need Raid."

Face felt that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. They didn't have reinforcements. They weren't ready to move. Face steeled himself before answering.

"You're definitely going to need some Raid."

There were too many guards for the four of them to get an unknown number of men out of this building. Face could only pray that Hannibal had some kind of plan ready. There was no telling how long it would take the _guards _to get reinforcements if they knew some kind of rescue attempt was being planned.

"I'm going to have to go to the store and buy some," Hannibal said. "That means you need to hang in there."

Face took a deep breath as he heard the heavy metal door at the end of the hall creak. He had a few seconds, maybe.

"Take your time, One-Zero," he said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Give 'em hell, kid."

Face smiled tightly, but he could hear his heart pounding in his ears as the key turned in the door. "One-One out."

He still had the radio in hand as the door swung open, the dim light outside blinding him for a moment. As his eyes finally adjusted, he found himself staring up into the furious face of a Cambodian guard.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**THURSDAY, APRIL 3**

**1986**

It wasn't a good sign that the prison warden had to speak through an interpreter, a small and thin Vietnamese man who had no doubt learned English during the war.

"He say, you and he not yet met each other."

Face smirked. "I suppose that would sound much more threatening if it was coming from him. Like with a little bit of foreboding in it and some maniacal laughter. Sort of a Luke Skywalker, 'I am your father' thing?"

The interpreter was confused. A few angry words from the warden got him speaking, but Face could tell he wasn't sure how to translate any of that. More angry words, and the Vietnamese stood up straighter as he looked at Face. "He say, you talk nonsense. I say, please do not do this, to you, because if I cannot translate, it bad for both of us."

Face paused. He hadn't been expecting that. But the pleading look on the man's face was telling. He was afraid of the warden. Perhaps rightfully so.

"Alright," Face agreed with a slight nod. "So what does he want?"

Face knew it was a loaded question. Sure enough, he spent the next ten minutes listening to a language he didn't understand followed by a hasty translation into broken English. He was a criminal, his people did horrible things, and he was going back to the Vietnamese government to answer for all of his crimes against the good people of Vietnam. Face listened to it all passively, simply waiting for him to finish. The longer he talked, the more time Hannibal had, and the closer Face was to being out of there.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"I was concerned," Face said quietly. "But I don't think I was really afraid. There was nothing he could've done or said that would've surprised me."

"Why?" Jessica asked. "Because you were expecting it or because you knew your team would be back for you?"

"Both. I think in a way, I was just relieved that he was a man who liked to hear himself talk. The more he had to say, the less he focused on me. I knew he'd get around to the radio sooner or later."

Face fell silent. Jess waited a long moment for him to continue. When he didn't, she finally prodded gently. "Did he?"

Face took a slow breath, like he was going to speak. But in the end, he remained silent. His eyes slipped out of focus as he pulled his knees up to his chest, hunching over them. It was like watching him fold in on himself. Not just physically, but inside too. The way his eyes seemed to be staring into the past worried her. She wanted him to focus on the present. Talking about the past was one thing, but living it was dangerous.

"Face, are you okay? You know you don't have to talk about this if you don't want to, right?"

He shut his eyes and shook his head slowly. He looked younger than he did on a normal day. Curled in on himself, rocking slightly, hugging his knees a bit tighter, he looked almost like a child. His breathing was slow and even, but the look in his eyes as he opened them made it clear that he wasn't calm. There was a strange look in them, almost like fear.

She suppressed a shiver. It was like defusing a bomb - one wrong move and disaster. She wished she was better at this, that she knew how to approach him, what to say.

_Stop, Jess. Now is not the time for a pity party._

She took a deep breath as she mentally steeled herself. "Face?"

He swallowed hard, noticeably. "There's reasons why prisoners are tortured," he whispered, not looking up. "Information, proof of control... I knew I was antagonizing them with the yelling when I came in, but in my mind, it was worth it. That didn't change. It wasn't like I didn't know it was a possibility. I would've still done it if I'd known it was a surety."

It was too much. Folded and small, huddle in and rocking like a child while talking in a dead tone about torture... She uncrossed her legs and moved on her knees to his side. Without thinking, she put one arm behind his shoulders and rested her hand in his hair, her other arm around the front. She wasn't sure if she was expecting him to resist, but he didn't. As she leaned into him, gently bringing him into her embrace, he rested his head on her chest, eyes shut, arms sliding around her waist.

"The radio was sort of like the nail in the coffin. They wanted to know where I'd got it, and what else I'd brought in. I didn't know how long it would be before Hannibal came back, and I knew it wouldn't placate him all that much if I was cooperative. So I told him nothing."

She stroked his hair gently as she held him, not speaking. His guard was lowered to a level she'd never seen before, and he didn't seem to care. Or even be aware of it. It was frightening and beautiful at the same time.

"I wasn't surprised," he continued in a whisper. He shook slightly, and her arms tightened around him protectively. "Wasn't unprepared. But when I walked into that room... I couldn't breathe."

**THURSDAY, APRIL 3**

**1986**

Breathe. Slow. Deep. The Xs on the floor showed him where they wanted his feet. He tried not to notice the old blood that stained the floor around them. Stripped naked and trying to control his breathing, he stepped forward slowly. He didn't want them to see that he was gasping for air.

Shut off. Go away. _You don't have to stay here for this..._

Eyes closed. Arms out. Ropes around his wrists. Pulley system on either side. Breathe, god damn it.

Face opened his eyes slowly and fixed them on a point somewhere on the wall in front of him, drawing in a deep, slow breath. Pain was not in and of itself power. It was a tool. And it could be manipulated by whoever was using it. They would use it on him. Eventually, they would break him. He knew how this worked. But he could use it, too. Every blow was a reminder that he _knew _he could take it. He'd done this before. And he'd survived.

Besides, the team was probably right outside by now.

Jaw set hard in determined anger, the lingering feelings of fear melted away. He flexed his grip, winding his hands around the ropes that held his arms spread wide above his head. The pull on his shoulders was already a dull ache; his feet barely touched the floor. The ropes around his ankles, spread just like his arms, were so tight he was losing circulation in his feet.

_Don't stay here..._

Damned if he went anywhere. He had no fear of them. There was nothing they could do to him that hadn't already been tried. Even if they killed him, they would never live to tell about it. He would have the last word. And he couldn't imagine what his team would do to them if they crossed that line. Images flashed in his mind, and he let them come. He welcomed them...

The room was a bloodbath. The dead NVA captain sprawled on the bed looked like the victim of a VC raid – tortured to death and left to bleed until he'd run dry. His throat was cut - deep and quick. He'd died quickly. Such a sad thing, really. Face would've enjoyed a slow death so much more, but it just wasn't practical. He'd only had a few quick seconds to savor the look of terror in the gook's eyes as he bled out of his neck.

Face had pacified that blood lust with a long gash from Dai's neck to his groin. It was just as deep, not so quick. The sheer amount of blood, and the precision in the mutilation... Face smiled at the memory. Funny how vividly he could still remember what that warm blood had felt like. What it had smelled like. How satisfying it had been to watch it seep through his fingers. He'd made no effort to press the wound; he'd just wanted to feel the blood while it was still warm and sticky. It was a small measure of satisfaction. A victory. A revenge. If he'd had more time, he probably would've taken more time to enjoy removing the man's dick.

Gasp. The flash of pain was blinding. It shot through him and hit his brain at record speed, almost before the sound of the cane registered. His grip tightened involuntarily as he cried out through clenched teeth, pulling his body up until he was straining against the ropes around his feet. The torturer was out of practice. The first blow had split Face's back wide open, and he could already feel the blood running down. Angry yelling in the unintelligible language followed. Eyes shut hard, Face drew in a slow breath, bracing himself for the next blow.

_ Fuck you..._

The second was softer. The man was practicing, trying to get the force just right. He wanted to bruise and break, not to bleed. The more Face bled, the faster he would lose consciousness. The more he bled, the faster he would die. There was no satisfaction in that. Not for a torturer. Face could feel the splatter as the cane hit the stream of blood that was draining down his back all the way to his thighs. Muscles everywhere tensed involuntarily, and stayed that way as he waited for the next blow.

His jaw was set hard, teeth ground together. He opened his eyes slowly. Slow, controlled breaths were interrupted by quick, involuntary gasps with every lash. But he didn't make a sound as the blows landed, over and over, from his shoulders all the way to his knees. He didn't bother trying to count. It wouldn't help. The man wouldn't stop until he was tired; it had nothing to do with Face. And from the enthusiasm, Face could guess that it had been some time since he'd had the opportunity to vent his frustrations on a new, unmarked prisoner.

_Fucking bastard... Bring it on!_

He held onto the anger for as long as he could. Stroke after stroke of the cane's biting kiss. Involuntary tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he could taste blood from where he was biting down on his tongue. His entire body was trembling from the tension in his muscles. He could feel his wrists rubbing raw every time he flexed his grip on the ropes. That grip was weakening. The pain was like a fog, settling over his mind, clouding his thoughts. Anger, like all emotion, ceased to exist as he felt himself slipping.

_Go away... Don't stay here..._

The will to fight was there. The ability was fading. He couldn't think. His awareness of the world around him was blurring into a constant stream of pain, piqued by lashes with the bloody cane.

_ My country 'tis of thee..._

Memories blurred with present reality, and his eyes slid shut as his grip on the ropes loosened. Blood loss and dizziness, overstimulation and pain.

_"Where are the rest of your tools?"_

_ Sweet land of liberty..._

Face could feel himself slipping. Darkness... then pain to jolt him back. He was lost. Falling...

_ "Your men are bleeding, Colonel Smith."_

Conscious thought, determination, even an awareness of who and where he was... it was all bleeding down his back, over the welts and deep bruises inflicted by that instrument of torture. He was at their mercy, and anyone who cared whether he lived or died at their hands might as well have been a thousand miles away.

_"James Harrison... Sergeant... US Army..."_

His back arched, and he gasped loudly as the cane struck directly over the open slice in his back. He could swear he felt it touch his ribs. He knew for a fact that he felt them snap. His next breath in was agonizing, and as the cane came down again, he threw his head back and screamed.

_"Stop. Please, please stop..."_

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"It's hard to tell how long it was. You lose your perception of time. And I was... gone. It was just so surreal. All of it. Like a dream you can feel."

His breathing was shallow. Jessica could feel every breath he took, and the way they shuddered. As he held on to her, she had that same surreal sensation of reality shifting and transforming. The fact that he had lived through something so shocking and horrific was enough to take her breath away in and of itself. The fact that he was here, with her, talking about it... She didn't know how to think about that, what to do.

"It was a part of me that's so far gone now. Violent and..." Every breath interrupted his words, and he wasn't trying to keep his voice even anymore. "Things I've forgotten. Things I made myself forget. Pieces of me I don't want anymore. The way I had to stay there, had to feel it... I don't know how to describe it."

"What do you mean, had to stay there?" she asked quietly.

"I could've closed my eyes. I could've focused on the things I used to focus on. Years ago. The 'Our Father', over and over again. 'My Country 'Tis of Thee', on repeat in my head. Every time I hear them, I go to that place where I don't feel. But I didn't do that. It was like I had to feel it... I had to know..."

"Had to know what?"

"I don't know. I can't describe it. It was just... instinctive almost." He looked up at her again, eyes deep and full of pain. "I never thought I was still afraid. The things that happened there..."

She smiled softly. "They aren't things that just go away."

He frowned and shook his head as if he wasn't getting the words out correctly. It was a long moment before he continued. "People don't think about what it means to hold your discharge papers in your hand and know that chapter in your life is over. I never had that. This life is very different, but that one never closed. And I wonder - I _still _wonder - how much of me is still that soldier. Because what we do - the guns and the danger - it's the same. But it's not. It's not bloody. It's not vicious. It's not war.

"But the war never ended, Jess. I never knew who got the final say. If I was stronger or if they were. I survived, but I don't know if that's enough. How can you say that it's enough to still be breathing? I just needed to face it. Once and for all. To find out if it was worth being afraid of the skeletons in the closet. To bring that part of my life to an end.

"It's not like I planned it - like that's why I went over there. But when I saw the blood on that floor, I knew. I was done running. I was done being afraid."

"Closure," she whispered.

"Yes. If there is such a thing."

Her mind was listening to what he was saying, recording it and filing it away. Really, she didn't care if she ever heard another word of what had happened in that God forsaken part of the world. With a tight smile, she reached up and brushed away the tears that had escaped the corners of his eyes and were slowly making their way down his cheeks. But there was nothing for her to say, and no way to describe everything she was feeling.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**THURSDAY, APRIL 3**

**1986**

Face was aware of several things at once - the pain, the hard floor under his body, the smell of decay and human beings, and bony hands on him. He wanted to stop those hands from whatever they were doing, but an attempt to move brought the pain screaming back, and he aborted halfway through.

"Do not move," a soft, male voice said. "You safe now."

Safe. He didn't feel safe. As the fog from the pain slowly cleared, he tried to make sense of the world around him. It wasn't as dark in the cell as it had been. A small oil lamp was flickering. It smelled horrible, but face wasn't complaining. It gave him the ability to look around.

He was on his stomach. The hands on his back were pressing on the wound he could still feel seeping blood. "Be still, and bleeding will stop. Is not too bad."

"Could've fooled me," Face said quietly, setting his head back down and letting his eyes slide closed.

"Why you not answer the questions? It would have been better for you."

It took Face a moment to put the pieces together. The man caring for his wounds now was the interpreter he'd met in the room with the prison warden.

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"I not know. Some hours. You stay still."

Face remained obediently still as the hands withdrew, and the soft sound of dripping water was followed by the feel of a warm rag on his back. The man was cleaning up the blood.

"You do have a name?" Face asked.

The man paused, seemingly startled by the question. It took him a long time to answer. "My name is Anh Dung."

"Templeton Peck. You can call me Face."

"I know who you are."

"Really? How?"

"You are a good catch. They will receive much money for you, and for your colonel."

"Ah, that bounty thing. Right."

Anh Dung was quiet for a moment. "I, too, was colonel. In North Vietnamese Army."

At that, Face couldn't help but look back at him - the sunken eyes and cheeks. For the first time, he took a really good look, and saw the marks of torture he'd overlooked before. "But you're a prisoner here, too," he realized.

"I am many, many years in this prison. They keep me because I know four languages. All the others, all Vietnamese, all gone."

Face sat up slowly, carefully, ignoring the pain as he focused his attention on the man in front of him. "What about the Americans?"

Anh Dung stared at him for a long moment, then sighed as he dropped the rag back into the bloody water. "Very few Americans. Most were killed long ago. Most valuable are here. Ones who still survive."

"Valuable," Face repeated. "What makes them valuable?"

"They are the ones Vietnamese government most wants."

"So many years later?"

Anh Dung smiled. "My people are proud, Lieutenant. They may not seek Americans, but they will accept them as gift."

Face was torn between two realities. The man in front of him was at once a friend and an enemy. He wasn't entirely sure how to process that.

"A gift?"

Anh Dung sighed deeply. "When war with US ended, Vietnam still kept camps in the jungle. New regime come to power, and slowly, all small camps were destroyed. Most prisoners were killed. Most Vietnamese killed, as well. I was spared."

Face's jaw tightened as he suddenly realized the full ramifications of what Anh Dung was saying. That line between ally and enemy was growing more defined. It wasn't enough that he was NVA. This man had run one of the small death camps he was describing.

"Few Americans, and few Vietnamese - ones thought most wanted by the government - were moved here. After... many months - it is hard to know how long - few Vietnamese here returned home. I was not allowed. They tell my people, I am dead."

The way his eyes lowered at that, it was very clear that the man had accepted his fate. He would live here and die here when he had worn out his usefulness. Again, Face wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"This is not a place for interrogation," Anh Dung finally continued. "Not for torture, and not for killing. They want you alive, to be used for negotiation with Vietnam. This," he nodded to Face's injuries, "you did. Do not repeat it. Vietnam wants you and your colonel dead or alive. There is no reason you should be dead."

The anger that had been bubbling up inside of Face finally had a place to go. Teeth clenched in anger, he leaned forward slightly. "You, your government, and the sons of bitches who run this prison, can all kiss my white American ass. Because I will be damned if I am any more cooperative now than when I escaped from one of your little jungle camps, and shoved Captain Thanh Dai's dick down his cut throat."

Anh Dung stared at him for a moment, emotionless. Finally, he gave a deep, resigned sigh. "I want only to know what else, beside the radio, you brought with you into this room. Do not think it would not be found anyway. And do not think your colonel will rescue you before they do."

A wicked smile crept across Face's lips as he stared down the man in front of him. "For as well as you think you know my colonel, you sure as hell don't know him like I do."

*X*X*X*

"What you are proposing is suicide."

Hannibal smiled. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

Nhean studied Hannibal with a look of both skepticism and curiosity, offering nothing more.

"Look," Murdock continued, "the prison is _not _that big. You can't tell me that you don't know where to find a dozen or so guys who won't want to go rescue some prisoners and get back at these assholes for everything they've done to your people."

"It is not so simple."

"I don't see the complication," Hannibal said.

"They will search for those responsible. You and your men return to the United States. We here live with the effects, under the power of a government who has killed millions for less."

"If your government knew about anything you do out here, right down to the clothes you wear, they'd be equally displeased."

"Is that a threat?"

"Not at all. It's a point in case." Hannibal took a step forward. "The fact of the matter is, you don't give a damn about what your government thinks."

"You are right. In this way, I make money. It is worth the risk. I do not see how raiding and destroying this prison is also worth the risk."

"Because there's people inside," Murdock said flatly.

"People die every day."

"But they're not dying!" The emotion was creeping into Murdock's voice as he slowly lost his ability to contain it. "They're being kept alive and tortured every day."

"I do not know them. I see no reason to die for them."

"Then name your price," Hannibal interjected.

Nhean turned and stared, taken aback for a moment.

"This operation is worth the risk because it pays well. What would be worth that risk? A thousand? Ten thousand?" Hannibal's eyes narrowed as he stepped in even closer, dropping his voice until it was little more than a growl. "I don't know what your people paid you when you were stationed at Duc Lap. But I know for damnsure mine didn't pay me near enough to make one miserable day in that god-forsaken war worth it. I watched for years while men spilled their blood at my command and I swore to them that no force on earth would make me abandon them while I was still breathing. If you want money, you can take the fillings out of my goddamn teeth. But I willhave my men, every last one of them, or I will spend the _next _fifteen years making every person I deem responsible for their deaths feel the same loss that I do. And that, in case you were wondering, _is _a threat."

Nhean studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Hannibal didn't back down, didn't look away. His jaw was set, eyes locked, just waiting for the verdict. Finally, Nhean took a slow, even breath.

"I had heard stories of your fierce loyalty." His voice was low and flat, emotionless in spite of the depth and understanding that was suddenly plainly evident in his eyes. "But I had never believed them until now."

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"After Anh Dung left, I don't know how much time passed. They didn't bring food, or water. I tried establishing contact again with the other prisoners, but there was nothing. They never answered."

Blotting out the image of Face beaten and bloodied on a dirty cell floor was easier than she had imagined. She had a lot of experience in blocking out painful memories. Thinking about him here and now helped. Here, he was safe. She knew how this story ended.

"I kept falling asleep. Probably the blood loss. Dehydration, on top of it. It was so hot, I could barely breathe. I could feel the flies, but I couldn't see anything. Hear the rats..."

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to ignore the words that were coming out of his mouth. She couldn't listen to this. She couldn't think about it. He was relaxing, and that was the goal. All she had to do was stay close by and let him talk. She didn't have to process it, didn't have to envision it. He was right here - no rats, not bleeding out. She could hear his breathing, and it was a beautiful sound.

"I was delirious by the time they opened up the door again. I couldn't think. They gave me water. Asked me questions about Hannibal. I don't really remember what they asked. I think I blacked out. When I came to again, it was because of the pain. I was tied to a chair, they were asking me things. I don't remember what. I remember thinking I would tell them what they wanted to know if I could just figure out what that was. Because it didn't matter. Because Hannibal was probably right outside."

**SATURDAY, APRIL 5**

**1986**

BA was weak from hunger. But that wasn't the only reason he was glad to see Hannibal. In fact, it didn't even make it onto the list. "Where the hell you been, Hannibal?"

Hannibal handed him a jar full of rice, even before he crouched down. "Sorry, BA. We can't risk even one of these guys walking away from here. If they do, anybody with us will be found. We needed a bigger force than what I could put together in a few hours."

BA had no trouble emptying the jar of rice. In fact, it only took him a matter of seconds. "Nobody come in or out. I circled around the perimeter a couple times to try and find the best wall to lay the charges. And one time they sent out dogs, but the rain wasn't stopped long enough for them to get a scent."

"Good. The last thing I want to deal with is dogs."

"They got no vehicles here, Hannibal. Best I can tell, they walk in from the road. But no one come and gone since you left."

"I'm not worried about the transportation. We've got that covered."

"How you got it covered, Hannibal?" BA was clearly tired, and worried. "How many men you got?"

"About fifteen." He checked his watch. "Murdock is going to need about an hour. You need to rest your eyes. We move at 1900. Should be right about dusk."

"What you got Murdock doing?"

"Let me worry about the plan. You worry about getting a few minutes of sleep. I need you functional. And I can tell by the way your eyes are crossing that you're not."

BA couldn't argue. It was like flipping a switch to acknowledge that Face's life no longer depended on his ability to monitor the comings and goings of the building in front of him. And once he realized that, even the rain pounding on his back couldn't make that mud look like a less appealing place to lay his head down.

*X*X*X*

"[I expect that you have already made the call I requested.]"

Murdock waited for the translator to change the words from Russian to Vietnamese. From the way the Vietnamese colonel was staring at him, it was clear he had no idea what to say to that. Probably because there was no call ahead. "{Tell him that I do not understand,}" the colonel said to the translator.

Murdock's eyes narrowed. He didn't wait for the translator. Instead, he leaned forward on the desk and glared hard at the base commander. He switched to Vietnamese with such fluidity, the man was clearly taken aback.

"{I know that you are not going to tell me you did not make the call.}"

It took him a moment to find words. "{What call? I am not even certain who you are.}"

Murdock used every bit of energy he could muster to slam his fists on the desk, sweeping an arm across and sending papers flying. The Cambodian soldiers who'd escorted him inside immediately rushed to subdue him as he screamed curses in Russian. But he spun to face them before they reached him.

"{Lay one finger on me, and I will ensure that you spend the rest of your days in a Russian prison where you will _never _be found. And pray that those days are short!}"

They stopped, stared, and looked to the colonel. Murdock spun to face him, and made some show of subduing his anger. "{I placed a request nearly a week ago with one of your men here. It has been a very long week, and I have no recollection of the man's name. But if I find him, I will first find out why he chose not to relay my request to you. Then I will gut him for his incompetence.}"

The colonel looked at once surprised, confused, and fearful. But based on the fact that he was doing nothing to assert his authority, it seemed that he'd gotten the message Murdock was giving. The KGB answered to no one. Both the Vietnamese and the Cambodians answered to them.

"{I don't understand,}" the man stammered. "{But whatever you require, I assure you, I can get it.}"

Murdock leaned forward on the desk again, lowering his voice. "{You will contact the nearest Russian military installation with a mid range transport plane - no, make it a long range. You will tell them to send this plane here, immediately. Tell them this request is by the order of 1st Chief Directorate Vladimir Kryuchko and that I expect that plane with two hours."

The colonel's eyes were as wide as saucers as he reached immediately for the phone. Dropping the name of the director of the KGB would get him everything he wanted with no questions asked. And if they somehow managed to figure out that it was bullshit before Murdock had his guys safely in the air, it would get him a nice trip to interrogation. No sane person would use that name without authority. It was a very good thing that Murdock made no such claim to sanity.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"I can't guess how long I was in that room. Hannibal says I was a prisoner for three days. It felt like at least that long, tied to that metal chair."

He could hear his own words starting to slur. Emotionally spent, exhausted, and safe in her arms, he barely found coherent thought. Funny, if he stopped to think about it. For so long, he'd been so careful not to come this close to her, not to give her any wrong impressions about the way he saw their relationship. But lying here, right now, he couldn't care about any of that even if he'd wanted to.

Her gentle stroking through his hair as he lay with his head on her lap was something he had never experienced. He was too tired to figure out how he should feel about it, or why. All that mattered in his world right now was that she was a safe place when he had none. And her nails scratching his scalp felt good.

She sighed softly as she leaned back. "Come here, Face."

Three thirty in the morning. How long since he'd slept? Not the fitful, dream-filled catnaps he'd been managing every couple hours since he came back - always during the day when he felt safer. But deep, quiet, peaceful sleep. It had been too long...

She guided him to where she wanted him as she pulled one arm under her head, the other hand gently holding his head. He rested his head on her chest, feeling the tension ebb out of him.

"I was already injured, and I knew they wanted me alive. But more than that, I knew the team was right outside. It was a lot easier to get through the... that part. It wasn't shocking. It's always easier when you're prepared. And I was prepared for... yeah. Anything."

He was getting too tired to put the words together. At this rate, he would be dead asleep within minutes. But he would keep talking until then.

"I was in and out of consciousness. Don't know how long..."

Fading thoughts. He realized he was falling asleep and started again.

"The only thing I was aware of when they hit the building was that there was some kind of explosion."

**SATURDAY, APRIL 5**

**1986**

The single RPG took out most of the west wall. But, to BA's credit, the structure itself remained remarkably intact. Hannibal only took a brief moment to survey the damage before he waved for the men behind him to follow his lead. While the attention was diverted to the west wall, he was coming in from the east.

There was no shortage of ammunition, but Hannibal saw no reason to waste it. A few quick bursts on semi-auto to take down the two guards at the front. A few steps in front of the other men, he paused just long enough to check them for keys before moving on. They had none.

It had been a while since Hannibal had led a force of this many men. Not that there were a lot, but it seemed that way when he was so used to his team of four. He pointed them down the hallways inside by twos, keeping Nhean with him as he made it to the end of the hallway with no signs of life.

It would've been nice if it had stayed that way. But as they opened the door, they were instantly met with a hailstorm of bullets. Reflexively, Hannibal slammed the door closed and dropped to the floor as the bullets clanged on the metal door.

"Move back!" he ordered Nhean. "Back!"

On either side of the hallway were the empty, unused rooms they had cleared on their way in. Ducking into them on either side, Hannibal grabbed one of the grenades from his belt, let it cook for a minute, then rolled it to the door before ducking into the room. The walls all shook, crumbling at their weaker points as the door flew back on its hinges. Whoever was on the other side fired wildly. Hannibal stayed down, and gave the signal to wait as Nhean looked expectantly at him for his next move.

The next grenade, he threw much further.

In the wake of the explosion, there was no more gunfire. Well aware that the lack of bullets didn't necessarily mean nobody was alive to shoot, Hannibal went through the doorway ready to cut down anything that moved. No threat - just a fair amount of blood among the bodies and crumbled walls.

"See if any of them are alive and just shell shocked," Hannibal ordered. "We could use a tour guide."

*X*X*X*

The assault on the building was primarily through the door on the east end. But when nothing moved in the clearing dust of the crumbled west wall, BA frowned. The two men on either side of him waited expectantly, ready to take out anyone who came through that wall. But in three full minutes, nothing was happening.

If he hadn't been so exhausted, BA would've preferred to be on the inside with Hannibal. But as it was, he had to keep reminding himself that this was a live weapon in his hands. He was so tired, he was having trouble aiming it. He was having trouble just holding himself upright. It was training and pure stubborn determination that had him focusing on the hole where the wall once stood. The same training and determination that had kept him awake for so long, watching for any signs that they were moving Face.

BA let his body work on autopilot. Surveillance of an enemy area was something he'd done so often for so many years, his body knew what it had to do even without thought. That was good, because the only thought in his exhausted mind was for Face and whoever else was in there, and the quickest way to get them to someplace that didn't look and sound so much like Southeast Asia.

Diamonds in the rough. He'd heard that and knew what it meant. But he couldn't believe it. Not really. Not that he though Face was lying or wrong, but he couldn't even wrap his weary mind around the idea that men - soldiers they had fought alongside - had be left like that. How could the US government not have known that? How could they have turned a blind eye? Even if they had thought, like BA had, that there was no chance anyone could still be alive, how could they not send even a single team to come and make sure. If SOG now was anything like it had been fifteen years ago, there would've been no shortage of men willing to come over here for an unsanctioned mission. Why had the Agency done nothing? Why had _nobody_ come after these men?

Fifteen years as a POW. BA couldn't fathom that. Six weeks had broken him so badly he'd never been able to put parts back together quite the way they were before. He'd never even tried until after Hannibal showed up on that cold Chicago day.

He shook his head, putting those thoughts out of his mind. It was a dangerous place for a mind to wander on a mission - especially one this risky. But he was too tired to keep his thoughts in the places they should be. He was almost too tired to have thoughts at all.

Movement. The two men on either side of them readied their weapons, but BA stopped them with a quick, "Hold." It was too dark to see what - or who - was moving. If they were friendlies, the last thing he needed was to blow them to kingdom come.

Stumbling awkwardly over the slabs of cement that had had been upright a few minutes ago, the dark figure was proceeding with caution. But more importantly, he was unarmed. BA squinted through the darkness, but he couldn't see much. After a few minutes, he reached for one of the three flares he had. He needed to see more than he needed to avoid attention.

The man hit the ground as soon as the flare went up. But not before BA got a look at him. He was not one of the oriental-looking Cambodians. He was a mess of matted red hair and tattered clothing - skin and bones beneath it. Memories stirred and shifted, coming unbidden to BA's exhausted mind. Murdock staggering out of that black hole, a walking dead man. Bulldog begging to die. Face with dead eyes and blood all over him. The sight of what he'd done to Captain Dai. Five stickmen in a filthy pit, crying as they pulled them up. All the sounds, smells and feelings swept over him at once. He wanted to be sick and cry at the same time. But he did neither.

Using every last bit of strength he had, BA pushed those thoughts as far away as he could. He had a job to do. There was no time to think and feel.

Keeping his eyes glued to the remnants of the building, he gave a whistle to get the man's attention. With his finger resting on the trigger guard, he used his other hand to gesture to the prone man.

"Come on, Jack!"

He wanted to run over there and pick the man up, get him out of the line of fire and over to safety. But he couldn't. If any of the guards found their way to that hole in the wall, Nhean and all of his rebel friends would be dead men. That meant that soldier had one last mission to do - to move towards an unknown, but definitely American voice. BA prayed to God the man would make it. He couldn't think about the painful irony of being this close and dying.

The man was still for a long moment. Then, slowly, he crawled up to his knees and climbed over the rubble on his way towards BA. More shadows were moving behind him, drawn by the flare or the whistle, one of the two. But they were unarmed as well. As the first man came within about twenty yards, he finally fell from his knees to facedown in the mud. BA watched the other figures slowly take shape, crawling and staggering over to the first man, pulling him up and falling down in their efforts until finally, the red haired man made it back to his knees and crawled further. The exertion, even for the short distance, was heartbreaking. And too familiar.

"That's it man. Come on. You too close to free to give up now. Come on."

Words were going right from BA's brain to his mouth. He was too tired, and too affected by what he was seeing to even think about editing them. Like zombies moving out of the mist, more men came, crawling, stumbling, and clawing their way out of that hell. Keeping his gun and eyes aimed at the building, BA held out a hand to the redhead, grimacing at the feel of bones poking through skin. With as much care as he could, BA moved the man behind him - the safest place to be. As the others followed, BA fought the urge to look at them and instead remained focused on the building.

"Get your breath," he ordered. "We wait for the others, then we movin'."

Words of homecoming and tears would have to wait. Ignoring the growing knot in his stomach, BA reached for the next man, all too aware that they were still coming out of the rubble.

*X*X*X*

The building seemed larger inside than it did from the outside. How could there be so many empty rooms and so few guards? Ever since the single room at the end of the first hall, there was no sound but the scurrying of rats. He left them alone, and they ran from him. It didn't seem right. The lack of electricity wasn't right, either. The hallways were illuminated with torches that made it hard to see, but easy to move. Hannibal kept his eyes moving over every shadow. This would have been easier during the day...

Finally, one of the doors was locked. He still hadn't found the keys on any of the guards. The rattle of gunfire down one of the other hallways somewhere in the building confirmed that they had not yet come across all of the guards - or even the most important ones.

He pounded on the door, then stood back, gun ready, to see if anyone answered. Nothing. The second time he pounded in Morse code. Anyone there? No response. He'd come back to this door. He didn't want to take a chance of firing at it - or otherwise blowing it up - when he didn't know what might be sitting on the other side.

Further down the hall, one step at a time, checking every corner. As a door in front of him opened, he immediately braced, ready for whatever stepped through it. If friend, he would lower his weapon. If foe, they would be dead before they saw him.

He wasn't counting on both.

The one good thing about the fact that Face was unconscious was that it incapacitated the two men holding him. One even had a torch in his other hand, and no access to his gun. The other couldn't ready it fast enough. By the time his eyes were able to focus on the dark figures in the hallway, Hannibal had his rifle shouldered and pistol in hand. Six bullets - three in each in rapid succession, and they crumbled to the floor. Face fell with them, and for a moment, it occurred to Hannibal that he didn't know for certain if Face was even alive.

He checked the two guards first, to make sure they weren't. Then he felt for Face's pulse. Steady. He was alive. "Face? Can you hear me?" Was he unconscious or just exhausted?

Face's eyes were both blackened and swollen. Nevertheless, his eyelids fluttered, eyes opening slowly. In the light from the torch on the floor, Hannibal locked gazes with him just briefly before Face closed his eyes again.

"Give 'em hell," he whispered weakly - so faintly Hannibal almost couldn't hear him. "Right, Colonel?"

'You're okay, kid," Hannibal answered softly. "You're going to be okay."

Face gave one final sigh as he turned his head towards Hannibal and slipped away, into unconsciousness.

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"I could hear the explosions."

It was the third time he'd said that. He was falling asleep, faster than he could finish his story.

"They tried to move me, but I couldn't cooperate if I'd wanted to. Just too tired..."

A soft smile crossed her lips as she wondered whether he was talking about his experience then or now. He was like a wind up soldier who'd run out of animation. She stroked her hand through his hair gently as she felt his weight grow heavier on her chest.

"I could hear them coming... And then Hannibal was there..."

"Rest, Face," she whispered.

His breathing deepened. The soft stroking of his fingers - he seemed to do that habitually, unconsciously, every time he was falling asleep - gradually stopped. She watched him as much as she could, tipping her head to see his face. He looked peaceful, even in spite of the damage. The bruises would heal. The wounds would leave scars in their wake, but the pain would ease with time. Still stroking his hair, she listened to the soft sound of his breathing, felt the reassuring rise and fall of his body with each shallow, slow breath. He was solid, warm, and, most importantly, alive.

And just like that, the floodgates were open. Safely out of his sight, all of the emotions of the night overtook her as she silently cried herself to sleep, holding him close.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

**SATURDAY, APRIL 5**

**1986**

Murdock was pacing. It didn't do much for keeping up appearances, and he was well aware that his ability to appear like he belonged was the only thing that was going to make this airport anything but a dead end. Worse than that. It was a military base, belonging to a hostile government.

Very suddenly, he remembered the story his grandmother had told him about Daniel in the lion's den. He didn't remember what Daniel had done to get himself thrown in there, and he only vaguely remembered how Daniel had gotten out. The thing that struck him most about that story had always been the image of a man surrounded by hungry lions. All of the artists whose renditions he'd seen had depicted that scene in pretty much the same way - disinterested lions and a saintly Daniel, serenely praying to God. Even as a child, that had seemed very wrong. Full of faith or no, Daniel must have been downright terrified. And those lions had to have at least been a bit interested in what kind of man this was that God said they weren't allowed to eat.

Murdock's own reflection, right smack in the middle of the lion's den, was pretty similar to Daniel's. He had plenty of faith in Hannibal, and in the fact that he would be coming through that gate at exactly the right moment to make all the pieces come together. It didn't stop his palms from sweating, or his heart from thumping hard in his chest. Hannibal would come through. But what if he couldn't fulfill _his _part? What if the timing was off? What if, for once, it didn't all come together nice and neat? Sitting in the middle of a den of interested lions was not the best place to get acquainted with one's own mortality. He had done that once before in a place like this, surrounded by people who looked like these guards. But he didn't have faith then. At least not faith that he would survive...

"{Sir, I have received word that the plane is on its way.}"

The hint of fear and worry was still very obvious in the Vietnamese colonel's voice. Good. He sounded more afraid than Murdock was. Best to keep it that way.

"{It is about time.}"

"{I am very sorry about the confusion.}"

"{As you should be.}"

"{Is there anything else I can do? Anything at all you need?}"

Murdock paused for a long moment. He wanted this to go smoothly. In fact, he needed it to. One little screw up, and every last one of them were going to die. This was quite possibly the biggest risk any of them had ever taken in their lives, and he needed it to have as little left to chance as possible.

Thank God he could at least count on the team.

"{There will be a bus arriving at the gate. It will be gray and the windows will be covered. The driver will not speak. When he arrives at that gate, the guard is to let him in, and I wish for an escort to accompany the bus to the airfield.}"

"{I will make sure it is done. When will the bus be arriving?}"

Good question.

"{That will depend on a number of factors which are not your concern. Just be ready.}"

"{It will be no problem. Is there anything else?}"

"{Not at the moment. But do not go far.}" Murdock turned and gave him a scrutinizing glance, arrogant and disgusted by the incompetence standing before him. "{I want you near at hand in case I need you.}"

*X*X*X*

It had been a while since Hannibal had needed to improvise litters from the contents of the jungle floor. But not one of the men they'd pulled from the building was strong enough to walk on his own to the bus, parked two klicks back on the nearest road. There was a path that looked like it could be a road leading to the prison - or what was left of it - but the only way to find out how it connected was to follow it. They'd had neither the time nor the energy to do that. Not to mention it was dangerous.

"Does the back open up?" Hannibal asked, looking over the rickety bus. He hoped to God this thing didn't break down. BA could fix anything with the time, parts, and energy... but they had none of the above.

"Yes," one of the men - presumably the one who'd happily sold them the bus for more than what it was worth - answered as he crawled into the front, moved to the back, and kicked the door open. "It not open easy, but it open."

Hannibal was fine with that. He was too tired to care about the bus's cosmetic value. He stepped back, and leaned on the side of the bus to catch his breath, arm across his forehead. He was dripping sweat, tired, and thirsty. But at least it wasn't raining at this particular moment. He gave a quick glance at BA, who'd barely taken his eyes off of Face since Hannibal had emerged from the building with him.

"This would've been easier if we'd waited 'til morning."

"Never did do anything the easy way."

Sweat was rolling off of BA's forehead. He was so exhausted, Hannibal could hear it in his voice. But he didn't lean against the bus. He was probably afraid that if he rested he would never get moving again. Hannibal knew that feeling well.

"So much for not travelling through the jungle at night."

Hannibal smirked, like a kid who'd gotten his way, but BA just scowled. "Yeah, you lucky we didn't walk up on no gorillas out there."

Hannibal nodded, letting the smile fall. "We're all lucky."

BA's eyes followed the rebels - scrutinizing their every move as they loaded Face on to the bus. Then he was looking at Hannibal, too many things he was too tired to hide playing behind those black eyes.

"We gotta get them out of here, Hannibal."

Hannibal nodded. He was not lacking confidence in their ability to do just that. "It's all under control, Sergeant. We'll be out of here and on our way back to LA in a few hours."

"Yeah."

Whether he was convinced or not, he sounded too tired to care. He'd done all he could. He was resigned to leaving it in someone else's hands now. Hannibal gave a small smile as he put a hand on BA's shoulder.

"Why don't you climb in and get some rest. I'll drive."

"Nah, man. I'm good with driving."

Hannibal laughed at that. "Sergeant, _I'm _not okay with you driving. After all of this, I'll be damned if I want to end up in a ravine somewhere because you couldn't keep your eyes open. I'll be driving. Go rest your eyes. That's an order."

BA glanced back at Face, then at the rebels, hiding anything he was feeling behind a scowl. But he wasn't swinging or yelling, so he would follow that order no matter how much he hated it. Hannibal watched as he reluctantly moved to the front of the bus, then inside. Along the way, he passed Nhean, who was approaching with a canvas bag in hand.

"It is little messy," Nhean said as he held out the bag. "Not like the one I gave to your friend."

"Gave" was perhaps not the word. Hannibal had paid dearly for it. But the advantage a couple of Russian uniforms would give them was priceless.

"The one thing the dark will be good for is hiding the messy uniforms."

"I hope that it will fit."

"Yet another thing that the dark will hide."

Hannibal held the bag at his side as he offered a hand, and a sincere, "Thank you."

Nhean stared for a moment at the outstretched hand before taking it. "Thank you, Hannibal Smith. You are every bit the commanding officer they said you were in Vietnam."

Hannibal smirked. "I like to think so."

"You take your men now. You take your injured. You go home. We stay here. It too dangerous if we go with you further."

"Agreed."

Hannibal cast a lingering look at the last of the fragile bodies being loaded into the back of the bus. It gave a whole new meaning to the term "precious cargo."

"Tell your men, thank you. We couldn't have done this without you. All of you."

"They are not my men," Nhean corrected. "This is a country full of broken people. I happened to know a few."

"Even so, they weren't just helpful. They were crucial. They should know that they saved these men's lives."

Even if they had been able to take the building by themselves, Hannibal knew that they never would've been able to carry the men to the bus by themselves. For that matter, they wouldn't have even _had_ the bus. Nhean's rebel friends, and their various contributions, were a large part of what had made this mission possible.

"You paid for our help." For just a second, Nhean's eyes went to the open back of the bus and the men lying inside. Then he turned and looked at Hannibal again. "In more ways than one."

Hannibal watched him for a long moment, aware of the sounds behind him as the last of the men was loaded up and the back door was closed. Finally, Hannibal gave a tight smile, and a nod. There was nothing left to say. Throwing the canvas bag over his shoulder, he moved to the front of the bus. He would need to change into the outfit before he started for the airport.

*X*X*X*

"Come on, guys, come on..."

Murdock realized he was muttering out loud and quickly silenced himself. The last thing he needed was to have someone hear him speaking in English.

Murdock shoved his hands into the pockets of his stolen uniform. The team would come. They were doing the hard part, and he had no doubt they'd do it well. All he had to do was be ready. That was what they needed and that was what he would do. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he fought the urge to check his watch again. It didn't matter how long it had been, they would come. He put that though in the front of his mind and held on to it. He could deal with the rest when they were somewhere safe and far away from here.

The uniform was hot, more suited to cool Russian nights then the humid Cambodian jungle. The collar was rubbing a sore into the back of his neck. Maybe that was why Russian soldiers never smiled - they were too damn hot and sore from their uniforms. Sighing to himself, Murdock tried to reign his thoughts back in. He had to be focused. He was, after all, a high ranking KGB agent on a top secret mission given by the director himself. That sort of thing demanded focus.

_Come on, guys. Hurry up..._

He had no way to monitor the team's progress - no way to know just how far away they were, how long it would take them to get there. He hoped to God it would be before the Russian plane. He really didn't want to have to make small talk with the Russian soldiers who would be on that transport - the ones who would assume that he was one of them. His Russian wasn't _that _good. He couldn't even read it. He froze with that thought. What if they wanted him to read something? Or even to sign orders? What if he had to sign _anything_? What was his signature supposed to look like? He could _speak _Russian; he'd never bothered to learn how to write it. If they asked him to read anything that consisted of more than an instrument list for a cockpit, they were in deep shit.

_Focus, damn it._

Straightening his back, he let himself pace once again. Pavel Wojeskov had great posture, and was anxious to save Mother Russia, nothing more. He certainly wasn't concerned about a bus full of American POWs and a mission that was nothing short of insane.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, he almost didn't notice the man who stepped into the room behind him. "{Your bus has arrived. It is at the gate.}"

Murdock was very careful not to show any outward sign of the huge sigh of relief. Turning his head, he nodded his approval. "{Any news on the plane?}"

"{At last check, it was about two hundred kilometers from here.}"

Two hundred kilometers was not very far. Thank God, the pieces were actually falling into place.

"{Have your men escort the bus to the tarmac,}" Murdock ordered. "{And make certain that they are men whose curiosity will not get the better of them. I should hate to have to take any of them back to Russia with me because they have compromised the integrity of my mission.}"

Murdock was almost surprised at the ease with which the Vietnamese words flowed out of his mouth. It had been years since he'd used this language. He hated speaking it. But some things, he would never forget.

"{My men will give you no trouble.}"

"{Just in case, I will need a translator who speaks Cambodian, Vietnamese, and Russian. There should be no reason for any words to be exchanged, but I want no language barriers if it should be necessary. The man you select must also have top secret security clearance. And I will need him by the time that plane arrives. You will be able to provide that, yes?}"

"{Yes, of course.}"

Good answer. KGB bad asses expected to get what they demanded. Luckily for Murdock, those who lived in fear of the KGB were accustomed to giving them whatever it was they asked.

*X*X*X*

"I don't like this, Hannibal."

Hannibal laughed at that. "We're sitting surrounding by soldiers of an opposing, communist country, in a bus with twenty badly wounded men, waiting for a military transport plane from Mother Russia. What's not to like?"

BA growled, but he was too tired to put much effort into it. "Don't like being here and I don't like waiting for Crazyman to scam the Russian Army."

"I thought it was rather ingenious, myself."

BA frowned as he looked back at the men lying everywhere, all over the back of the bus. "Gonna be hard to see."

"That's kind of the idea." Hannibal was watching through the windshield as the soldiers stood guard, perfectly still with their AK-47s in hand. "The less they'll see, the fewer questions they ask. And that means we'll have an easier time getting out of here."

"Ain't worried about what they gonna see. I'm worried 'bout what Murdock gonna see."

Hannibal looked away from the guards and back at BA. There was a reason why Murdock had not come with them to raid that prison. The fact that he was able to serve a better purpose here was not it, though it was an added bonus.

"Don't know which is gonna be harder for him - seeing them or seeing Face. Last time he seen any of that we -"  
"I know," Hannibal interrupted. It was something he would not, could not let himself think about. Not here. Not now. BA knew that; he was just too tired to be careful.

"As soon as we're in the air, we need to take control of that plane. Otherwise, we're going to end up on a Russian military base with everybody wondering what the hell we're doing here."

"Knocking people out on planes something you had plenty of practice at."

Hannibal smirked. In the back of his mind, he was fully aware - and a bit amused - that for once, BA seemed to have no trouble at all with the idea that they were waiting for a plane. It appeared that his fear of being stuck in Cambodia - undoubtedly in prison after this stunt - was greater than his fear of flying. Either that or he was just too damn tired to care. Whatever else that plane meant, it was also a promise of sleep. _Deep _sleep, with no enemy nearby to threaten him.

"Better get here quick Hannibal," BA muttered, unable to keep his eyes open as he leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "Or I ain't gonna be much help."


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

**SATURDAY, APRIL 5**

**1986**

The two guards who escorted Murdock out to the bus stopped as they came within thirty yards - just as they'd been ordered. The guards surrounding the bus didn't stop him, or even flinch as he passed. The translator who met him with a salute announced himself and then immediately stepped to the side to let him continue on towards the bus, and the door that opened at precisely the moment he stepped up close to it.

The first thing that hit Murdock was the smell. Sweat, dirt, piss and fear. It was a smell that brought with it a tidal wave of confused memories, all at once. Ignoring the moment of absolute chaos in his head, he pushed those thoughts away without acknowledging them. He needed to stay oriented to this place and time, not trying to fight his way through memories. Their lives all depended on his ability to stay focused.

Forcing down his reaction, refusing to acknowledge the voices, Murdock stepped into the bus. His eyes drifted to row after row of gaunt, forgotten, beaten, starved men. Some part of him was aware that his hand was gripping the eroding seat back with a white knuckle grip as the memories and nightmares rose up under the frozen surface of his mind, too real to ignore this time. Distant echoes of screams and blood threatened to spill over, drowning him in their depth. And then he was looking at Face - beaten and bloodied, slumped over in a seat behind Hannibal.

Suddenly, that dark thing in him was rearing its head, demanding payment. Letting it howl in his head, it drowned out everything else and kept his attention firmly locked in present. There was no option to slip into the past. Face had turned himself over to the enemy in order to get these men out. Murdock would be damned before he failed to do his part.

He didn't even recognize the cold, hard voice that addressed Hannibal, quietly so that none of the other passengers could hear. "The plane is on its way."

Hannibal smiled, but it lacked the arrogance and fun that it would otherwise have in the heat of the most dangerous moments of a mission. "Just as long as I don't have to speak Russian, we'll be golden."

"All you got to do is look more dead than alive. I'll take care of the rest." The flat voice was certain, and so was he. They were all getting out of here. It wasn't just faith, it was fact. He would make it happen. This was his part to play. He was the bridge between these men and freedom.

"I take it that's your plane?"

Murdock turned to look. The plane was coming in a little too close to be any other. He could see the markings on it as it drew nearer. An Antonov AN 124, just what the Russian military would use.

"You going to be able to fly it?" Hannibal asked.

It was a foreign plane that usually required a crew of four and he would have to fly it off wire and under the radar for seventeen hours through hostile territory and across the ocean, alone.

"Yes."

"Then you'd better go get acquainted."

Murdock took a deep breath. There was no doubt or hesitation about flying that plane. Flying was always like that with him. Having the dark feelings so close just made it that much easier. The plane was his and he would use her to get them home. It was as simple as that. However, the road between here and the cockpit was a little intimidating, to say the least.

"I'll be following your direction, Captain."

He cast a quick look in Hannibal's direction. There was no hesitation or concern in his voice, or on his face. It was... comforting. His confidence always was. He had never made a habit of asking if things were possible. He simple understood the limits of each member of his team, and told them to make it happen. However Murdock was going to make this happen, Hannibal had complete confidence that it would get done.

Murdock looked from one forgotten man to the next in the back of the bus, noting each one. Every nuance, every detail... He stored it all away somewhere deep. For now, he was a hard KGB agent protecting his country. It was safer than being the dark anger-filled thing that wanted to kill every man between him and that plane just on the mere possibility that they had been a part of what had happened to these men. Hell, they deserved to die just for existing in a place that had done this.

Carefully hidden away under his disguise, Murdock turned and opened the door to the bus again. "I'll see you on the inside."

*X*X*X*

In the eerie silence from the back of the bus, it was easy to hear any attempt at speech. It was even easier for Hannibal to hear the sound of his name. More than that, it prompted an immediate and instinctive response. Nothing could've kept him in that driver's seat.

"I'm here, Face."

Face opened his eyes as much as he could, weakly, and then shut them again. "Water..."

"We'll get you some on the plane. There isn't any right now."

"Plane?"

"Just relax, kid."

Face's eyes stayed closed as we used all of his energy to try and speak. His voice was hoarse, raw and quiet.

"Where am -" A dry wheezing cough stopped him from finishing, but Hannibal knew what he was asking.

"You're on a bus. You're about to be on a plane that Murdock is going to fly and get us back to the States."

Face moaned slightly - a soft sound to indicate that he understood. Hannibal looked around, and noticed that several silent men were watching him.

"When we move you, I need you all to be very quiet."

A few sets of eyes closed, but he received no response. That's okay. He wasn't really expecting much from them. He looked back down at Face. His eyes had opened again, and he was starting up at Hannibal, eyes filled with pain.

"How bad?"

"You got a couple broken ribs and your back needs stitches. I don't think anything else is broken. A shower and a hot meal and a comfortable bed. You'll be fine."

He managed to shake his head. Even that small gesture had his eyes shutting tight against the pain. "Not fine." There was a pause as Face's jaw clenched. "Didn't promise...not going to understand..."

The words where fragments of a conversation, like a bad telephone line that kept cutting in and out. They made no sense to Hannibal, and he doubted they made all that much sense to Face. Hannibal smiled softly, and rested a hand gently on top of the kid's head - the one place he knew wouldn't hurt. He had already checked for head injury, and there were no bumps under his hair.

"Relax, Face. You're okay. You're safe. Just rest."

Face made a grab for Hannibal's arm, and despite all the injuries preventing him, he managed to catch his sleeve, holding on to it with more strength then he should've been able to. When his eyes opened again, they were looking straight into Hannibal's.

"If I don't make it..." His voice was getting weaker, he was pausing between words. "Tell Murdock... not his fault... nothing he could do..."

"Face." Hannibal put a hand over his. "You're not hearing me. Listen to me. It feels like a lot, but your injuries are minor. You're going to be just fine."

Face had spent the last of his energy. A fraction of a nod and his eyes closed, hand dropping. He was back in the darkness where his body could heal and his mind could rest.

***X*X*X***

Authority. It was all about authority. Murdock walked right up to the plane carrying plenty of it, with a translator and two armed escorts behind him, and confronted the first man who stepped off the plane. "[What is your name?]"

The lack of formalities caught the soldier off guard. That was a good thing. Especially since Murdock wasn't familiar with the specific formalities of the Russian military. Some things were universal. There would be a salute and a self-identification. What that looked and sounded like was subject to the variables of each military.

Luckily, Murdock learned fast. He noted the salute, and his eyes found the insignia as the man announced his name and rank. Captain. Good.

"[How many men are on board this transport?]"

The man stared at him for a moment. "You'll forgive me, Sir, but I don't think I caught your name."

"[If I wanted you to have my name, I would've given it,]" Murdock snapped back. "[Your orders say to report here to pick up a load of cargo, do they not?]"

"[Yes, Sir.]"

"[And they should also say that this mission is top secret, by authority of 1st Chief Directorate Vladimir Kryuchko. Do you happen to know that name, boy?]"

The man straightened. The "top secret" part, he might have gotten. The name drop was new on him. Good. The shock would make him more cooperative. "_Da_."

"[Then I suggest you answer my question before I make a better note of your name.]"

Cooperation was not his problem from that point on.

*X*X*X*

The guards surrounding the bus guided it closer to the plane, pointing for Hannibal's direction. He followed the signals, and finally parked it. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he stood and looked once more at his cargo. "BA, wake up."

BA snapped awake, blinking in confusion. Better now than when there were eyes on him.

"We're go."

Murdock was pointing. There was a man at the door. Hannibal opened it, praying he wouldn't need to actually speak to whoever it was, since it wasn't Murdock. Cambodian. Speaking in a language Hannibal didn't understand, but it was not Russian. As long as it wasn't Russian, he was safe. In any case, it wasn't hard to figure out what the man was gesturing about. Time to load the plane.

The wide-eyed surprise of the Russian captain as he realized just what sort of cargo he would be carrying was not accompanied by any sort of protest. Hannibal marched past him at the front of the line, leading the men into the plane. Those who could walk trudged behind. Those who couldn't were carried by the Cambodian soldiers and deposited unceremoniously in the cargo bay. It was a damn good thing Hannibal couldn't speak the language, or he would've had words for those soldiers. And really, there was no reason why he should care how these men were treated.

There were five Russians in the cargo area of the plane - all armed and trying like hell to keep their eyes to themselves - off of Murdock, who was yelling in Russian at the captain, and Hannibal, who was likewise dressed in uniform and scowling. Murdock paced towards the cockpit and then away again, impatiently waiting for the plane to move.

Then the door was sealed. The wheels were turning. Hannibal cast a quick look at BA and saw the man's eyes darting, every muscle tense. _Come on, BA, keep it together..._

There was a door between them and the men up front. Good. That would make it easier to take the plane, and they only had so much time. Hannibal's heart was beating in his ears, adrenaline coursing through his veins as Murdock sat down beside him in preparation for takeoff.

The Russians were all armed. But they would be unprepared. Normally it was a very bad idea to start shooting in a plane. But Murdock wasn't going to need to fly this high enough to need the cabin pressure even if they _did _puncture the armor plated cabin. And they wouldn't. A bigger concern was ricochet, and having a bullet rip through the room like a pinball in a machine. But Hannibal had thought about that. It was why their pistols were loaded with hollow point bullets.

One shot, one kill. Between the pistol on Hannibal's side and the one BA had hidden under his clothes, the two of them could take down the four nearest them while Murdock moved on the cockpit and the captain who was seated at the door. In no case was Hannibal aiming to maim or wound them. These were not nasty people trying to extort money from Mom and Pop's corner store. This was the Russian military - men who had no problem transporting these broken, barely-alive Americans for safekeeping in a Russian prison.

Exchanged glances. Hannibal felt the vague sense of lightheadedness as they lifted off the runway. BA swooned a little, but looked back at Hannibal. Time to move. Murdock's hand was on his pistol, feet under him. Now or never.

Hannibal nodded.

His aim was perfect. Between the eyes of first one, then the other of the guards. They never had a chance to raise their weapons. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other three fall, almost simultaneously. Murdock was at the door. Hannibal was next to him. He didn't wait for BA, who was busy gathering the guns from the hands of the dead soldiers.

Door open. The looks of surprise were still on the men's faces when they died. Murdock lunged for the controls as Hannibal helped to move the dead pilot out of the way. It only took him a few seconds to get situated.

"Concerns, Captain?" Hannibal asked as Murdock looked over all the gauges.

"Nope. Pretty cut and dry."

"Can you get us to LA without a stop for fuel?"

"I'll get us at least to Hawaii." He glanced up and made brief eye contact with Hannibal. "I'll let you know about LA when I get a feel for how much fuel we're burning."

Hannibal clapped a hand over Murdock's shoulder, and returned to the cabin to announce their success. They weren't out of the dark yet. But they were at least out of Cambodia.


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

**SATURDAY, APRIL 5**

**1986**

"You're Hannibal Smith."

The scratchy voice was barely audible over the hum of the plane's engines. The man was sitting up, back to the wall, holding the plastic cup of water in his shaky, bony hands. It was probably the first clean water he'd had in years.

Hannibal nodded. "That's me. Who are you?"

"Captain Robert Dundry, US Navy. Four-zero-zero-three-zero-four-two-six-one."

That was habit. Years of giving name, rank and serial number, of praying that someone, somewhere, would remember it and identify him by it.

"Well, Captain, it's a pleasure to meet you. Wish it was under better circumstances, but given the situation, it's the best I could do."

Dundry was looking right at Hannibal, but there was a stunned, hazy look in his eyes. Hannibal wondered if he could see him at all, or if it was simply that he was expecting Hannibal to disappear.

"Hard to believe this is real. I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and be back in my cell."

"It might take a while before that goes away. You've been there a long time."

Dundry took a small sip of water, like talking was hard to do. The English language was very likely something he had to think about and try to remember. "What year is it?"

It seemed like an odd question at first. It certainly wasn't one that Hannibal was asked often. It took him a moment to answer. "May, 1986."

"1986?" The man's eyes filled with tears, and he ran a shaking, skeleton hand across them. "My God. So many years, so many men, dead... waiting..."

Hannibal lowered his eyes, quiet for a long moment. "I'll never know how you survived, all these years. I don't think I could ever really understand it. But one thing is for damn sure. You've got a hell of a lot more strength than any man I've ever met before today."

Dundry shook his head. "The strong ones died," he whispered.

"Why do you say that?"

"They believed right up to the end that we would get out."

The eyes that meet Hannibal's were haunted by voices and memories Hannibal knew he would never truly understand. And he thanked God for that.

"I gave up hope a long time ago," Dundry continued. His small smile was rusty and frail. "Now, I don't know."

"You survived," Hannibal said softly. "And you're going home. _That_, you'll know for sure in a couple hours, when we touch down at LAX.

"Home." The reverence he had for that simple word hung in the air. "There's thirteen of us now. At one point there were twenty-two. And those weren't even the men I was with in the jungle. I tried to remember their names..."

"You'll remember when you need to."

"Somebody has to remember them."

"I'm sure the military will help. They'll want to know."

Dundry stared at him, dead eyes sunken and empty. "Why did it take the Army so long to send you? The war is over, isn't it? It's got to be over by now?"

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment, running his tongue over his teeth. What must it be like to not know anything that had happened in the past twenty years?

"The war is over," Hannibal said softly. "It ended in 1973."

"Did we win?"

Another loaded question. Hannibal lowered his eyes, then his head. "No."

"Why come for us now?" Dundry whispered. "What changed?"

Hannibal wanted a cigar, but he didn't have one. The last one he'd brought hadn't survived the monsoon rains. Taking in a slow breath, he looked around at the other sets of eyes on the other skeleton men, silently watching him.

"Some of you might know me. Others may not. I don't think I know any of you personally. I am Colonel Hannibal Smith, one-zero of RT Cannon, Fifth Special Forces. At least I was. In 1971, my team had orders to rob the Bank of Hanoi. We did. It was a setup. We were court marshaled, but we didn't go to trial. We broke out of prison, and we've been on the run ever since."

He paused for a deep breath, eyes passing over the weathered, bony faces staring up at him through matted hair and dirt and filth.

"The Army didn't send us," he finally finished. "A girl whose father went MIA did. She hired us to try to find him. We found you."

"Criminals?" Dundry asked quietly, his voice tainted with disbelief.

Hannibal nodded. "The charges were robbery and treason. For me and every member of my unit."

"The military left us, but criminals found us?"

The laughter sounded rusty and painful. Hannibal wasn't shocked when it faded into a dry sob. Looking at the other faces, he saw similar responses.

"You found us..." Dundry was muttering to himself, hand over his face as he sobbed quietly. "Jesus H. Christ, I couldn't make that up. You really found us."

The reality of it all was slowly sinking in. It would take months, years for the full effects to be felt, but as Hannibal watched, the hazy look lifted just enough for the Captain to look at him. The tears left muddy streaks down his cheeks before they got lost in his beard.

"Thank you..."

Hannibal nodded slowly, solemnly, keeping his eyes on the man in front of him although he spoke to all of them.

"Thank _you_," he answered.

He left it at that. There was nothing more to say. Words were cheap, and they would only cheapen the very real sacrifice these men had made. And they weren't through giving yet. They weren't through suffering. Reintegration into a very different society... How could they ever even function? But he couldn't think about that. He couldn't do anything about it. Right now, his focus was set on getting home.

***X*X*X***

"Hey, Colonel?"

Hannibal was beside Murdock, noting the tension in his voice, almost instantly. "What's wrong?"

They were landing at LAX, after a flight that had been amazingly smooth. It was the perfect time for something to go wrong.

"Who do you suppose is in all those little green cars lining up to chase us down the runway?"

Hannibal looked. Between the cars and the jeeps, there weren't a whole lot of possibilities. "I'd say it's a pretty good guess that's Decker."

"We're about out of fuel, Colonel. I can't take her back up. Plus I'm 'bout to pass out. I can either land on that runway or... maybe a stretch of road?"

He was too tired to think straight. That much was clear just by looking at him, even if his tone hadn't been saturated by it. Hannibal sighed. Damn it, they shouldn't have tried for LA. Hawaii would've done just as well.

"Alright," Hannibal said. "Set her down on the runway. When you're stopped, I want you to hide. Don't let them see you. You getting dragged off to prison with us is the last thing I need right now."

"I'm not hiding, Colonel."

Murdock's eyes were on the gauges. It was hard to say whether it was more shocking to hear Hannibal refuse a direct order or the cold way he did it. He really was entirely too sleep deprived to function. Nevertheless, his hands danced across the instrument panel, flicking switches and buttons labeled in code with the grace of a ballet dancer.

"I'm staying with my unit," he said firmly. "I'm not going to spend my time in a different prison. Not again."

Hannibal hesitated, brow furrowing. Seventeen hours in flight, thinking about the horrors in the cargo bay behind him, an entire day of stress before that... It was no wonder that Murdock's mind was wrapped up in its own little hell.

"Murdock, this isn't about that," Hannibal said firmly. "I need you outof prison so that _we _can get out of prison. You coming with us doesn't help anyone."

"I'm in a Russian officer's uniform, about to land a stole Russian military transport plane, with nine dead Russians and thirteen POWs from a country we never officially fought in, freed by three fugitives wanted for treason, right in the middle of Los Angles." Murdock glanced up at him only briefly. "No offense, Colonel, but unless you have one hell of a plan up your sleeve, my days at the VA are about to be upgraded to life in the stockade."

There was barley a bump as the tires of the big plane touched earth, followed by the whine of the hydraulic breaks being applied.

"You let me worry about my plan," Hannibal said firmly. "Just stay out of sight. There's a certain way to do this. And if we can protect your identity, that's what I'm aiming for."

Murdock sighed, but he didn't have the energy to fight. "You just tell me where to stop, Hannibal."

"Pull off the runway. Let them get as close as they want to. We're not going any further in this plane."

*X*X*X*

"Colonel Smith! Come out of that aircraft with your hands on your head!"

Decker was almost expecting a witty comeback of some kind. A well-marked Russian military transport plane was not the most inconspicuous travel arrangements. He was lucky he hadn't gotten shot out of the sky, though the lack of communication from the tower until the very last second suggested that they may have been flying under the radar, at least since they'd entered US airspace. Smith was smart enough to plan that. But he was smart enough to plan for Decker being here to greet him, too.

So where was the witty comeback?

As the door opened and the steps lowered, the men in the cars on either side of him readied their weapons.

"Hold your fire."

They hardly needed to be told twice. Especially when the man who stepped into the doorway looked nothing like Colonel Smith. In fact, he looked like nothing Decker had ever seen. Taken aback by the mere sight of him, Decker didn't know how to respond at first. His grey hair was so overgrown and so matted, that it was impossible to tell where the hair on top of his head ended and his beard began. The hair probably weighed almost as much as he did. Bony and starved, he reminded Decker of the men in Nazi concentration camps - men who hadn't eaten in weeks. Clothed in only tatters, shoeless, and streaked with mud and filth, he didn't even quite look human.

"Colonel Decker?"

Decker was caught off guard, both by the fact that this man - it _was _a man, underneath all of that - could talk and the fact that he had walked right up to him and addressed him by name.

"Yes, that's me." He didn't know what else to say.

The man was clearly exhausted by the short walk from the plane to the cars, where Decker was standing. Nevertheless, he put his heels together, and raised his hand to his forehead in the most uniform salute that his broken, malnourished body could manage. There were tears streaming down his dirty cheeks as he shuddered, and managed a weak whisper.

"Captain Robert Dundry, US Navy. Four-zero-zero-three-zero-four-two-"

He never finished the last of the numbers. Before he had a chance, his strength gave out, and he collapsed forward into Decker. Acting on reflex alone, Decker caught him, and was immediately shouting orders.

"Get this man a doctor!"

"Uh, Colonel?"

He glanced up, over at Crane as two of the other MPs lifted the unconscious Captain Dundry out of his arms. Then his eyes followed in the direction Crane was pointing as another man emerged from the plane. Then another. Then another. He stood still, dumbfounded, as they tried to help each other across the short distance, until they were safely within the distance for the MPs to step out and help them. One by one, they stood in front of Decker, and weakly attempted a salute.

"First Lieutenant Jose Sanchez. US Air Force. 829-92-2819."

"Staff Sergeant Jonah Briggs. US Army. 382-22-4439."

"Warrant Officer Andrew Lollie. US Air Force. 119-28-4830."

"First Lieutenant Mark Cozekch. US Army. 291-38-9102."

They kept coming - one, after another, after another. As Decker slowly comprehended what he was seeing - the tears in the men's eyes, their broken and shriveled bodies, their determined efforts at a formal salute - he could feel the shocked awe and respect for each one of them growing in his chest. It took him several tries before he was able to respond the way he should've been responding all along - with a full salute returned to each one of them.

"Welcome home, soldier."

His voice sounded far more sure and confident than he felt. He couldn't even begin to think of what his next step was in getting these men care. All he could manage was to repeat the same gesture until they finally stopped coming, and he stood still, staring at nothing, barely to breathe.

At the bottom of the stairway leading down from what had to be a stolen Russian aircraft, stood Smith and Baracus with the unconscious and badly beaten body of Lieutenant Peck between them. There was no doubt in his mind that Captain Murdock had been the one flying that plane. If he wanted to, he could have all four of them locked safely behind bars before sundown. And every man standing here knew it.

"What do you want to do, Colonel?" Crane asked.

There was tension in his voice. Every other soldier with them was helping to lead and secure the men who'd stumbled off the plane. Smith and Baracus stood still, waiting for the verdict. Decker took a deep, slow breath. "Help those men," he ordered. "Get some ambulances in here and call the general immediately. That's a stolen Russian military plane, and we don't need an international incident with the USSR."

"Yes, Sir."

Crane was gone in an instant. Decker watched him leave, then looked back to the party at the foot of the plane. With a deep breath, he stood at attention and saluted the men who had brought these soldiers home. In that moment, it wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference if it was Hannibal Smith or the Devil himself - Decker could think of no other way to communicate all that he felt in this particular moment.

Smith couldn't stand at attention even if he'd tried. Not with the broken body of his lieutenant draped over him. Nor could he return the salute. But he nodded his understanding. It was the only thing like words that needed to pass between the two of them. Leaving the keys in the ignition of the car nearest him, Decker turned and walked away, around the car and to the small crowd of soldiers young and old who were trying to put their worlds into order again. He wasn't even sure at what point Smith and his men got into the car and quietly drove away.


	24. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

**TUESDAY, APRIL 8**

**1986**

"Give you a ride somewhere?"

The girl cast a lingering look at the Corvette, and the man inside who was leaning over the passenger seat to talk to her out of the open window. Brows raised in amusement, she stepped closer and leaned on the top of the Vette, stiletto heels clicking on the pavement.

"Nice car," she smiled.

"Yes."

As she dropped her head to look inside, she blinked in surprise. His lip was split, both eyes blackened. He looked like someone had beaten the hell out of him. In any case, he sure didn't look like he was in any condition to be enjoying a pleasant evening.

"Hot damn, what happened to you?"

"Do you want to talk or do you want to work?"

He turned, blue eyes locking on hers.

"Fifty bucks. Take it or leave it."

There was something calming in his eyes. Something trustworthy. She was a pretty good judge of character. Hell, her life depended on it. This one was okay, even if he had just gotten the shit beat out of him.

She didn't say a word as she got into the car. Her first ride ever in a Corvette. She'd been in a lot of cars, but this was a new one. She ran her hand over the red leather interior with a smile.

"So are you from around here? I've never seen you before."

"I don't want to talk."

She glanced at him, then shrugged as she fell silent, leaning into the open window as they headed down the street. "Suit yourself."

The motel was nothing special. She followed a step behind him as he stepped inside the room, then closed and locked the door behind him. He set his keys on the table by the door before he slid close to her, pulling her hips against his. Right down to business.

"You pay me first," she said, smiling as she slid her hands up his arms.

She didn't realize he had the money in hand until he held it up. A single fifty dollar bill.

"Though I don't know where you're going to put it because I want you out of those clothes."

She stared at him for a long moment, wary of the dead cold tone of his voice. But before she could think of anything to say, he was speaking again, eyes on hers.

"Please," he said flatly. "I don't want anything kinky. And I'm not going to hurt you. That doesn't get me off."

It was almost like he could read her mind. Her thoughts formed at almost the exact same moment that he spoke them. It was eerie. As he stared at her, eyes locked, he raised his hand to her face, touching her lips lightly.

"I just want to fuck you. That's all I want."

Suddenly, she had no thought of resisting.

He didn't say another word to her. She would've thought it was his first time with a professional by the way he treated her with the kind of care and gentleness that most regulars didn't bother with. But there was nothing about him that was hesitant or unsure. He wasn't trying to figure out what to make of this encounter in the world of love and sex and relationships. It was a business exchange. And he seemed neither thrilled by it nor looking for any particular thing that she was a substitute for. She'd been with a lot of johns. None were like him. Her life would've been a lot easier if they were.

He never undressed. As he finished with her, he moved to his side, then his front, head down on his arms. He was flexing his fingers, like he was trying to bring feeling back to them. Or maybe they hurt. She'd seen her grandmother do the same thing with her arthritic hands. He seemed a bit young for that, though.

She waited until he hadn't moved in several minutes. Hopefully, he was asleep. She wasn't going to roll him; she just didn't know what to say to him. As she stood and redressed, she could hear the rain outside - the thunder rumbling low in the clouds. The rest of this night was going to be miserable.

"I kept you longer than I'd intended."

She jumped at the sound of his voice, and turned to look at him, confused. "So?"

"If you charge by the hour, there's cash in my wallet. It's in my jacket. Take what I owe you."

She stared. Was he serious? But his eyes were closed, head on his arms, completely relaxed. Well, if he was going to insist.

She took the cash from the wallet, but left the credit cards and everything else. She still had nothing to say as she slipped her shoes back on, cast one final look at the beaten man on the motel room bed, and shrugged as she stepped out the door. Before she closed it behind her, she could've sworn she heard him say a simple, "Thank you."


End file.
